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Book 



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COEXRIGHT DEPOSEK 



FRIENDLY RHYMES 




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THE LOVABLE LASS OF THE GROUCHY OLD MAN 

[Froiilis piece] 



FRIENDLY RHYMES 

OLD FRIENDS IN JOYOUS VERSE 



BY 

JAMES W. FOLEY 

Author of 

'Boys and Girls," "Tales of the Trail," "Voices of Song," Etc. 

Illustrated by 
JOHN WOLCOTT ADAMS 




NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
68 1 Fifth Avenue 



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Copyright, 1918 
Bt E. p. DUTTON & COMPANY 



All Bights Reserved 



DEC -9 1918 



Printed in the United States of America 



©GI.A5U8465 



INSCRrBED WITH AFFECTION 
TO MY OLD FEIEND AND COMPANION 

GEORGE W. HARRISON 



NOTE 

Many of these verses appeared originally as 
contributions to The Saturday Evening Post in a 
period of some fifteen years of occasional offering. 
The courtesy of The Post in permitting reproduction 
in this form is acknowledged, as is also that of The 
Century^ Life, The Pictorial Review and The 
Youth's Companion. The verses touching war as ob- 
served in town and camp appear, with two or three 
exceptions, for the first time here. The verses "The 
Defense of Cy N. Ide," have been adopted into the 
law of the land, and form a supreme court decision 
in Oklahoma — to be found in 124 Pacific, 76. 
Others of the verses have enjoyed a popularity that 
seems to justify their inclusion. 

J. W. F. 



TECHNIQUE 

I TAKE a little bunch of words and set 'em in a 
row, 

I take a little bit of Ink and mark 'em down 
just so, 
I take a little time and pains and then I have a verse 
That starts about like this one does or maybe slightly 

worse. 
And then I go back to the start and criss and cross 

and scratch 
And search among my words until I find me some 

that match 
The pretty thoughts that dart about like silver fish 

and shine, 
But need a patient, watchful hook to get 'em on the 

line. 

My thoughts melt Into words sometimes — not 

always — now and then, 
And I can feel 'em coming down my arm and through 

my pen. 
I only have to push It o'er the paper and It spells 
For you and all my other chums the things my fancy 

tells. 



viii TECHNIQUE 

Just like a boy with building blocks, I move my words 

about 
When I have something in my mind and try to work 

it out, 
Until in orderly array I get 'em in a row 
Just as I think they ought to be and write 'em down 

just so. 

And so just with some words I paint the pictures 

that I think. 
The dreams and things that live in me and set 'em 

down in ink. 
And sometimes there's a tear in it, and sometimes 

there's a smile. 
And there is many a grassy bank and many a vine 

grown stile. 
And many a lane that you would know if you could 

be with me, 
To look right where my pen Is now and I could help 

you see. 
I merely take a lot of words and place 'em in a row 
And build such pretty things if I can get 'em down 

just so I 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Technique vii 

OLD FRIENDS IN JOYOUS VERSE 

What's the Use? i 

The Penitent's Prayer 3 

The Lost Hour 8 

After the Battle 10 

The Schoolboy's Dream 14 

The Lad and the Dad 18 

A Plea for Molly Jane 23 

The Tale of a Dog 28 

The Friends 30 

The Oracle 35 

The Lure of the Plow 37 

The Dissenters 39 

The Defense of Cy N. Ide 41 

The Higher Education 48 

The Story of the Game 52 

Genius a La Mode 57 

The Regeneration 62 

The Song of the Dinner Bell 65 

Dreams 67 

The Town of Impossibleville 69 

The Woes of the Consumer 72 

The Easiest Way 77 

The Real Isslte 79 

Trifles 81 

iz 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Old Subscriber 85 

The Week in School 87 

Modern Mathematics 89 

Hic Jacet Bones 91 

A Really Pretty Girl 93 

Just How it Was 95 

Vanity ■ 99 

The Lovable Lass of the Grouchy Old Man 102 

A Mistaken Impression 104 

From the Court Records 106 

The Regular Party Man no 

Poor Jim 114 

A Toast to Merriment 117 

The Smothered Rebellion 119 

Love's Cottage the First 122 

A Closet for Clothes 125 

IN TOWN AND CAMP 

The Family Reunion . .131 

The Sons of Old Glory 134 

The Recruit 138 

Hands Across the Sea 141 

When He Comes Home 144 

The Home Guard 147 

The Philosopher 153 

The Private 158 

Beyond the Horizon 160 

The Quiet Hour 162 

Paradise Lost 165 

The First-born . . . . ' 167 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

The Lovable Lass of the Grouchy old Man . Frontispiece 

The Penitent's Prayer {Headband) 3 

The Penitent's Prayer 5 

After the Battle 11 



The Lad and the Dad 



19 



A Plea for Mollie Jane 25 

The Friends 31 

The Woes of the Consumer 73 

Trifles 83 

Just How It Was 97 

The Home Guard 149 

The Philosopher 155 



FRIENDLY RHYMES 



FRIENDLY RHYMES 

WHAT'S THE USE? 

I'VE my share of troubles earthful but so many 
things are worthful I am given to be mirthful 
as I go upon my way. 
I am very fond of dining and of languorous reclining, 
and the sun for me is shining when it's not a 
cloudy day. 
I have much delight in smoking, there is always fun 
in joking, and there's pleasure in invoking 
dreams of rare and rosy hues; 
I could be a cynic bitter if I chose to, or a quitter, 
but the birds without there twitter in their 
branches: "What's the use?" 

I've no doubt that I could double quite my quantity 

of trouble, but a trouble's but a bubble that 

soon vanishes from sight. 
I could probably be tearful if I wanted to, or fearful, 

but I can as well be cheerful if I go about it 

right; 
And I get each day a measure of quite philosophic 

pleasure just by laying up a treasure of the 

sunshine on my way, 



2 WHAT'S THE USE? 

That will comfort me hereafter and attune my voice 
to laughter that shall ring from floor to rafter 
when it comes a rainy day. 

When the Summer flowers are blooming though I 

know that Time is dooming them to death I 

keep perfuming all my memory with them. 
And, I beg of you to hear me, in the Winter time they 

cheer me, and each one seems nodding near me 

from its thorn encrusted stem. 
When the sun is brightly shining I store up some 

silver lining that I may not be repining if it's 

dark another day. 
And when joy's fleet hours are tripping and the 

sweets of pleasure dripping in the intervals of 

sipping I just hide a bit away. 

So in verse that's well appointed and of meter word- 
anointed, with a rhyme that's triple jointed, as 
I think you will agree. 

Let me bid you cease your fretting, find new pleasure 
in forgetting, and before the sun is setting seek 
some happiness with me; 

Think the sun is brightly gleaming, think the hours 
with joy are teeming, there is always time for 
dreaming dreams of rare and rosy hues. 

Be not ever cynic bitter, and be never once a quitter, 
for the birds without there twitter in their 
branches: "What's the use?" 




THE PENITENT'S PRAYER 

I'M just a little boy, dear Lord, 
A boy You never knew, 
I hate to bother You — I know 
That You have much to do; 
But I was sent to bed without 

My supper — now I pray 
Make me forget I'm hungry, please, 
And wash my sins away. 



They blew my bed-time candle out 

When I got into bed ; 
They never even kissed me, Lord, 

Or stopped to pat my head. 



THE PENITENT'S PRAYER 

You see, my folks are cross with me; 

And we had lemon pie 
For supper and I missed It, so 

Please help me not to cry. 

Now it is getting pretty dark; 

It's awful lonesome, too; 
I guess I haven't got a friend 

In all this world but You; 
If You could spare an angel kind 

To come down here and keep 
Me company a little while. 

Perhaps I'd go to sleep. 

I'm not so very awful scared, 

But I can hear, down-stairs. 
The supper things that rattle so. 

And everybody shares 
The lemon pie they've got but me, 

So please, if You can find 
A little time to spare, I wish 

You'd help me not to mind. 

Please won't You help me just this once 

Forget the lemon pie? 
Don't let me shiver in the dark 

And help me not to cry; 
Let some kind angel comfort me 

As angels sometimes do, 



THE PENITENT'S PRAYER 

Some time, perhaps, I'll have a chance 
To do something for You. 

Please bless all my dear teachers, Lord, 

And bless my parents, too; 
And help them to forgive me. Lord, 

For all the things I do. 
Bless Henry Begg and Stubby Weeks, 

Bless all the boys I know; 
And cure up Henry's dog, because 

The boys all like him so. 

And please remember all the poor; 

Send them a lot to eat; 
Bless orphan boys especially. 

They get cold hands and feet 
From not enough warm clothes to wear. 

And when there Is a storm, 
Help them to get inside somewhere 

So they'll be nice and warm. 

Lord, please forgive a little boy 

That You may hardly know; 
I'm awful hungry in the dark. 

Please tell my parents so; 
Ask them to save a piece of pie 

When I am good again. 
Now help me go to sleep so I 

Won't think of it. — Amen. 



THE LOST HOUR 

SHE kept Tom Gibbs in after school 
When all the world was fair, 
Because he broke some simple rule; 
She did not seem to care 
How much he suffered when he heard 

Us going out to play, 
While he sat there and never stirred 
Because he had to stay. 

He looked at his geography. 

But could not read a word; 
She did not know he could not see 

Because his eyes were blurred; 
And when he heard the shouts and cries 

As we went through the gates, 
A great big tear fell from his eyes 

On the United States. 

And then he ciphered on his slate, 

In hopes he might forget 
The world, and think of eight times eight; 

But just when he would get 
The answers down, he'd hear us call 

"One strike !" outside, at play, 
And then another tear would fall, 

And wash his sums away. 



THE LOST HOUR 

He looked into his history 

Awhile, and watched the clock. 
He read from ancient times till he 

Was clear to Plymouth Rock; 
And he read on and never stopped 

His studying until 
He heard us cry outside, and dropped 

A tear at Bunker Hill. 

And after that she let him go, 

In sorrow to the brim. 
'Twas strange she did not seem to know 

She took an hour from him; 
And even with the mighty power 

A teacher has to rule. 
She cannot give him back the hour 

That she took after school. 



AFTER THE BATTLE 

HERE lies the drum that bravely beat 
And the fife that sounded shrill 
To the tramp and tramp of marching feet- 
But the warring notes are still. 
Here lies the flag all gory red 

That was borne up the hillside steep 
Ere the ranks were torn and the soldiers dead — 
Say, where do the soldiers sleep? 

I found them there when the day was done, 

The flag and the drum and fife; 
The battle was lost and the battle won, 

For such is the way of life. 
I lifted them one by one and sighed 

With the shadows falling deep, 
On the field where the soldiers bled and died — 

Say, where do the soldiers sleep? 

The drum I put where the dish-pan stood. 

And oh, but the pan was bent 
And beaten sore where the knobby wood 

Potato-masher went 




„.dS 



Ofaa U/ol Cob datOM/o 



AFTER THE BATTLE 13 

As it beat the horrid war's alarms, 

And the flag with its flaunt and flirt 

That led these gallant men-at-arms 
Was my gay-hued outing-shirt. 

And the fife was a favorite cherry stem 

That once in my pipe was fast — 
But what was a favorite pipe to them 

As the soldiers breathed their last? 
It's cracked and split where they tramped about, 

'Twould make the angels weep ; 
Say, find me a switch that's good and stout 

And — ^where do the soldiers sleep? 



THE SCHOOLBOY'S DREAM 

IT was on Recitation Day 
And to the platform high 
Ten schoolboys mounted one by one, 
Each with a bloodshot eye, 
Each with a voice that shook with fear 
And blistered lips and dry. 

That midnight in his troubled bed 
One dreaming schoolboy lay, 

Long since the Village Curfew Tolled 
The Knell of Parting Day, 

And left the fields in darkness where 
Maud Muller Raked the Hay. 

The Midnight Passed, the Boy awoke, 
That Bright Dream was his Last, 

He waked to hear the Light Brigade 
Charge full Six Hundred past. 

His Brow was Wet with Honest Sweat 
As he looked on aghast. 

The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck 
Whence all but He Had Fled, 

The flames that rolled above the wreck 
Shone Round Him O'er the Dead, 

On Fame's Eternal Camping Grounds 
Their Silent Tents Were Spread. 



THE SCHOOLBOY'S DREAM 15 

It was the Schooner Hesperus 

That Sailed the Wintry Sea, 
On Linden When the Sun Was Low, 

And RolHng Rapidly 
Was Iser and Untrodden Snow, 

The Boy, Oh Where Was He? 



He climbed far out upon the mast 
With Lean and Sinewy Hands; 

He sees where, far below his perch, 
The Village Smithy Stands, 

Beneath the Spreading Chestnut Tree, 
And homes and native lands. 

"Ho, Blacksmith," cried the Boy aloft, 
"Mark thou my crossbow well, 
Hold firm the apple on thy head 

Lest some disaster fell 
Come to thee from this shaft I send. 
For I am William Tell." 



"Shoot if You Must This Old Gray Head," 

The Village Blacksmith cried, 
"But Spare Your Country's Flag," he said, 
"For Men Have Bled and Died 
Where Freedom from Her Mountain Height 
Unfurled It Far and Wide." 



i6 THE SCHOOLBOY'S DREAM 

"The Melancholy Days Have Come, 

The Saddest of the Year," 
The Boy replied in Accents Wild, 

In which was little cheer, 
"For Men May Come and Men May Go, 

But I am prisoned here." 

In the Signal Tower of the Old North Church 

He saw a lantern shine, 
'Twas the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere 

Hard by the foaming brine, 
When he rode down From Bingen, 

From Bingen on the Rhine. 

"Friends, Romans, Countrymen," he cried, 
"To be or Not To Be," 
Then he looked up aloft and spied 
The Boy far out at sea: 
"It is the Little Peterkin 
In very truth," quoth he. 

"Now Blessings on Thee, Little Man, 

My Barefoot Boy," he cried, 
"Art thou the Little Peterkin?" 
"Nay, nay," the Boy replied, 
"Look close and see that We Are Seven, 

Myself and six beside." 



THE SCHOOLBOY'S DREAM 17 

"One IS the Village Blacksmith there, 

And you are Paul Revere, 
And one of us is William Tell, 

And one is far up here, 
Three more upon this rostrum high 

Will presently appear." 

"So you must Give Me Liberty 

Or Give Me Death," he cried. 
"Jump, Boy, Far Out and leave that wreck 

Upon the foaming tide. 
And I will catch you in my arms," 

So Paul Revere replied. 

"Thou Too Sail On, Oh Ship of State," 
The Boy cried out, "Adieu! 
The Muffled Drum's Long Roll Shall Beat 

Thy sailors' Last Tattoo," 
He leaped Into the Ocean's Arms, 
A Brave but Fallen Few. 

Below him was the Burning Deck 

Where flames rolled hot and red, 
Great stars he saw and then sat up 

To rub his aching head 
When he waked up at last, for he 

Had jumped right out of bed! 



THE LAD AND THE DAD 

MY friend, Johnny Jones, once played hookey 
from school, 
(A quite reprehensible thing!) 
In plain contravention of precept and rule, 

(A most inexcusable thing!) 
Played hookey with many a sly, backward look, 
Till he found him a seat by the bank of a brook, 
Where he skilfully wriggled a worm on a hook, 
''A most inexcusable thing!) 



His desk was deserted, his slate lay there spurned, 

(A clearly intolerable thing!) 
His books all unread and his lessons unlearned, 

(A quite unpermissible thing!) 
He fished with some qualms when he thought of his 

sin, 
And the schoolroom where properly he should have 

been 
But Oh, what his joy when he drew a fish in! 

(A terrible, terrible thing!) 




|oU*« Woitcu aciao*^ 



THE LAD AND THE DAD 21 

My friend, Johnny Jones, smelled of fish at the eve, 

(Quite truly a dangerous thing!) 
There was mud on his trousers and some on his 
sleeve, 

(A quite unexplainable thing!) 
So when he got home Father Jones crisply said: 
"I'll see you a minute or two in the shed," 
And he whipped Johnny soundly and put him to bed, 

(A parentally admirable thing!) 

My friend, Jones the elder, one hot Summer day, 

(A natural, natural thing,) 
Pulled down his desk-top, put his papers away, 

(A very explainable thing,) 
And said as he pulled his desk shut with a jerk: 
"I'm off for some place where the game fishes lurk, 
I'm blessed if this life should be made just for work !" 

(A really quite sensible thing.) 

So he left all his books and his papers and bills, 

(You'll agree an excusable thing,) 
And took himself off to the woods and the hills, 

(A surely forgivable thing!) 
He fished with some qualms when he thought of 

the bills 
And the papers and books, but the joy of the rills 
In the brooks and the call of the woods and the hills ! 

(A quite understandable thing!) 



22 THE LAD AND THE DAD 

He didn't play hookey ! Oh no, not at all, 

('Twas a really quite sensible thing!) 
But Johnny Jones did, as perhaps you recall 
That quite reprehensible thing. 
But the spirit of vagrancy Johnny Jones had 
Was much the same spirit as that of his Dad, 
And I say there's small choice between Dad and 
the Lad, 
(A really heretical thing!) 



A PLEA FOR MOLLIE JANE 

DEAR Lord, please bless the Robbinses across . 
the street from me. 
I'm sure that you would like them, for 
they're nice as they can be; 
And Billy Robbins is my chum; and MoUie Jane's 

a girl 
Who's big enough to cook their meals and keep their 

hair in curl, 
And put their shoes and stockings on and send them 

off to school; 
She knows the hymns and how to sew and keep the 

Golden Rule, 
And fix her father's lunch for him, because he goes 

away 
And takes it with him in a pail, to work out by the 
day. 

Their home is just a little house and right across 

the street, 
And Billy's sister, Mollie Jane, she keeps it nice 

and neat; 
She darns the children's stockings, too, and makes 

their faces shine. 
And combs their h^ir, and washes clothes and hangs 

them on the line ; 



24 A PLEA FOR MOLLIE JANE 

She makes hot soup for all of them when they come 

home at noon; 
And sets the kitchen table, too, and clears it off as 

soon 
As they are gone to school again ; and she can knead 

and stir 
And bake a dozen loaves of bread almost as big 

as her. 

I wish you'd bless the Robbinses — there's five of 

them in all, 
With Mollie Jane and Billy, and three others who're 

quite small; 
Their mother's gone to heaven. Lord — she's right 

up there with you. 
And she'd be glad — I'm sure she would — for any- 
thing you'd do. 
And Billy wants to tell her not to worry any more, 
For he helps do the washing now and scrubs the 

kitchen floor, 
And chops the wood and does the chores. 

And please, Lord, make it plain 
That Bill and I are going to take good care of 

Mollie Jane. 

And sometimes Bill and I keep house when T go 

there to play. 
And Mollie Jane goes out a while and has a holiday; 
We sweep the steps and rake the yard and light the 

fire for her 




|o(m* WoI <^n Ci<itouJU9 



A PLEA FOR MOLLIE JANE 27 

To get the children's supper on; and dust the furni- 
ture; 

And then she puts six places on and listens out to see 

If she can hear her father coming home in time for 
tea. 

And when I have to go back home she says to come 
again; 

And I take off my cap and say Good night ! to Mollie 
Jane. 

Dear Lord, please, won't you bless them all and tell 

their mother so? 
Tell her they're getting on quite well, and Bill wants 

her to know 
He makes the beds for Mollie Jane and washes 

dishes, too, 
And comes home early afternoons if there is much 

to do. 
They're just across the street from us, and nice as 

they can be. 
And maybe you could tell some friends of yours to 

go and see 
What they can do for Mollie Jane, who needs help 

now and then. 
And Bill and I will do the best we can. 

Dear Lord — Amen ! 



THE TALE OF A DOG 

HE was only a dog, with a tail that was brief, 
But waggish, as tales often be; 
His name had been Sport, but his life had 
been grief. 
And he clung like a brother to me. 
His life had been hard and his bark on the seas 

Of adventures and piracies grim, 
And he raised wonderful, mathematical fleas. 
For they multiplied quickly on him. 

He was only a dog, with a passion for cats — 

A subject he often pursued; 
His pleasures came mostly from worrying rats 

And ransacking rubbish for food. 
He gathered great stores of old footwear and clothes 

And offcast supplies and debris. 
And filled the back yard with old trousers and hose, 

And he clung like a brother to me. 

He was only a dog, with a bark that was stout 

And a quite irresistible whine; 
He rolled in the mud when the clothes were hung out 

And shook himself under the line. 



THE TALE OF A DOG 29 

He loved to pursue the sweet study of flowers, 

Nor had he a teacher — the elf, 
But spent many studious, summer-day hours 

In digging things out for himself. 

His welcome was kind as a welcome could be, 

For up to my friends he would slip. 
Ere they were aware of his proximity, 

And give them a sly little nip. 
Through night's stilly hours he would lie at my door 

And rattle betimes on the latch. 
And rhythmical noises on rug and the floor 

Told me he was toeing the scratch. 

He was only a dog, with no pride of descent, 

And one night where the stars gleam and shine 
I found him asleep with the life in him spent — 

When the town clock struck eight he strychnine. 
'Twas meet thus in meat he should meet him the end 

Of his tail, which was short, as you see, 
And I don't grudge the tear in my eye for a friend, 

For he clung like a brother to me. 



THE FRIENDS 

I CALLED him John; he called me Jim; 
Nigh fifty years that I knowed him 
An' he knowed me ; an' he was square 
An' honest all that time, an' fair. 
I'd pass him mornin's goin' down 
Th' road or drivin' into town, 
An' we'd look up th' same old way, 
An' wave a hand an' smile, an' say: 
'"Day, John!" 
"'Day, Jim!" 

I guess you don't real often see 
Such kind of friends as him an' me ; 
Not much on talkin' big, but, say, 
Th' kind of friends that stick an' stay. 
Come rich, come poor, come rain, come shine, 
Whatever he might have was mine. 
An' mine was his ; an' we both knowed 
It when we'd holler on th' road: 

"How, John!" 

"How, Jim!" 

An' when I got hailed out one year 
He dropped in on me with that queer 
Big smile, upon his way to town. 
An' laid two hundred dollars down 



\ 



THE FRIENDS 33 

An' says: "No int'rust, understand; 
Or no note !" An' he took my hand 
An' squeezed it ; an' he drav away 
'Cause there wa'n't nothin' more to say: 

"S'long, John!" 

"S'long, Jim!" 



An' when John's boy came courtin' Sue 

John smiled, an' — well, I smiled some, too, 

As though things was a-comin' out 

As if we'd fixed 'em, just about. 

An' when Sue blushed an' told me — why, 

I set an' chuckled on th' sly; 

An' so did John — put out his hand — 

No words but these, y' understand: 

"Shake, John!" 

"Shake, Jim!" 

An' when Sue's mother died, John come 

An' set with me ; an' he was dumb 

As fur as speech might be concerned; 

But in them eyes of his there burned 

A light of love an' sympathy 

An' frien'ship you don't often see. 

He took my hand in his that day 

An' said — what else was there to say? — 

"H'lo, John!" 

"H'lo, Jim!" 



34 ' THE FRIENDS 

Somehow th' world ain't quite th' same . 

To-day ! The' trees is all aflame 

With autumn, but there's somethin' gone— 

Went out of life, I guess, with John. 

He nodded that ol' grizzled head 

Upon th' piller of his bed, 

An' lifted up that helpin' hand 

An' whispered: "Sometime! — Understand?" 

'"By, John!" 

"'By, Jim!" 



THE ORACLE 

MEBBE she will," said Old Hi Green, 
With the end of a long dry straw between 
His teeth, and a brow that was furrowed 
deep 
With thought — and Hi Green thought a heap — 
"Mebbe she will," Old Hi Green said 
As he looked at the clouds up overhead, 
With a hint of the rain we asked him of — 
"Mebbe she will" — as he looked above — 
"An' mebbe she won't." 

"Mebbe she be," Hi Green would say 
When the wheat waved gold on a summer day 
And we talked of the bumper crop it was — 

"Mebbe she be" — Hi Green would pause 
And chew on the end of the long dry straw 
With a wise, wise look that a sage might awe. 
And brows with deep thought furrowed and knit — 

"Mebbe she be — but she ain't threshed yit — 
An' mebbe she ain't." 

"Mebbe I do," Hi Green declared 
When the old highroad must be repaired 
And the town trustees came, one by one, 
To see if he thought it should be done. 



36 THE ORACLE 

"Mebbe I do" — and he left no doubt 
That he'd thought it Jong and carefully out 
As a man and a payer of taxes should — 

"Mebbe I do" — as the straw he chewed — 
"An' mebbe I don't." 

"Mebbe I will," admitted Hi 
When they told him to put a field in rye 
Or wheat or corn, as the case might be, 
While the dry straw moved reflectively. 

"Mebbe I will" — and the old plow's track 
Was moist and loamy and rich and black, 
While the wrinkles that furrowed his sweated brow 
Were deep — almost — as the track of the plow — 
"An' mebbe I won't." 

"Mebbe I do," Hi Green observed 
When we asked him once if he ever swerved 
From "Mebbe I will" or "Mebbe so" 
To a plain outspoken "Yes" or "No." 

"Mebbe I do"— said Old Hi Green 
As he chewed on the long dry straw between 
His teeth, and his sunburned brow was brought 
Again to the wrinkled cast of thought — 
"An' mebbe I don't." 



THE LURE OF THE PLOW 

** 1 "J Y jing," said Grouch, " it 'pears to be 
Ij A durn wet Fall, so she looks to me ; 
An' th' ain't a leaf left on th' trees, 
A durn good sign of an early freeze; 
An' I bet you'll see a hard freeze come 
Till th' ground 's friz tight as a kettle drum, 
An' we won't be able to plow till Spring, 
An' th' wheat will be all shot, by jing!" 

"By jing," said Grouch, when the rain went by: 
"She looks to me like a Fall that's dry; 
Like she was in Eighty or Eighty-one, 
Too dry to git Fall plowin' done; 
An' th' season of Eighty-one or Two 
Th' Spring was late an' we couldn't do 
No plowin' then, an' we stubbled th' grain 
An' she all burnt up fer lack of rain." 

"I'm alius skeered of an early Spring," 
Said Grouch again — "I am, by jing! 
'Cuz she comes on quick an' dry an' hot 
An' th' wheat don't stool out as she ought. 



38 THE LURE OF THE PLOW 

An' th' ain't no roots an' th' ain't no stren'th, 
An' she all burns up in th' milk at len'th, 
An' when she's sellin' away up high, 
Y' ain't got none, an' got seed t' buy!" 

"None of yer 'way late Springs fer me," 
Said Grouch; — "In th' Spring of Ninety-three 
She was late and wet an' cold an' raw 
An' th' hull of th' durn crop run to straw. 
I wisht, by jing, that I never knowed how 
To seed or harrer or foller a plow! — 
Giddap, Old Hoss ! If we git this grain 
Sowed right, by jing, we'll be rich again!" 



THE DISSENTERS 

SCALPEL declares it's my liver, 
Says I need surgery bad. 
Capsule says it makes him shiver, 
Cutting has grown such a fad. 
Scalpel says I'll not be better 

Till I come-down and get fixed. 
Capsule says wrong to the letter — 
Gosh, how this Science is mixed! 

Sheepskin declares he can fix it 

So they can't filch my estate. 
Shingle says Sheepskin'U mix it 

So it will never get straight. 
Sheepskin says lawyers won't bust it 

Once I let him get it fixed. 
Shingle says he wouldn't trust it — 

Gosh, how this will-drawing's mixed! 

Churchbell says Heaven — he knows it- 
Lies right this way — ^knows it well. 

Choker says whoever goes it 

Won't land in Heaven but Hell. 

Churchbell says humbling the spirit 
Brings a man right to the gate. 

Choker says that's nowhere near it — 
Even religion's not straight! 



40 THE DISSENTERS 

Capsule is treating— or near It — 

What he calls biliary chill. 
Churchbell is mending my spirit, 

Shingle is drawing my will. 
Talk about wisdom's advances, 

Why, when it's all done and said, 
Looks like I'm taking long chances 

Living and dying and dead I 



THE DEFENSE OF CY N. IDE 

REMARKS BY COUNSEL 

NOW, may it please the Court and you, 
Peers of the realm, who come to do 
Your highest duty in the land — 
As jurymen, you understand — 
I outline briefly for our side 
The case for Mr. Cy N. Ide — 
My client here — whose whole life shows 
Him pure as the new-falling snows; 
A victim, I may say, of chance 
And much confusing circumstance. 

COLLATERAL EXCEPTIONS 

First, then, we ask the Court to quash 
The whole indictment — pray read Bosh 
On Bluff and Bluster, Chapter Two : 
"Ink must be black and never blue; 
And if the ink used is not black 
'Tis ground to send the whole case back!" 
The rule, pray please the Court, is plain; 
But here I read the law again — 
I quote now from authority 
Of Blow and Buncombe — Chapter Three: 



42 THE DEFENSE OF CY N. IDE 

"If any t shall not be crossed, 
Or dot of any i be lost, 
These grave omissions, then, shall be 
Enough to set defendant free!" 
So here we have the law; and see — 
Here is a naked, uncrossed t! 

PARTICULAR ERROR 

So the indictment, then, is wrecked — 
Full of omission and defect. 
Judge Finn Hedde, in his able work 
On Fifteen Thousand Ways to Jerk 
The Props from Prosecution, says: 
"A comma, standing out of place 
In the indictment, may upset 
The very best indictment yet. 
Far better Murder should go free 
Than we should have an uncrossed tl" 
So, on these vital points I might 
Insist upon my client's right 
To be set free; but there are more 
On which we set much greater store : 
The Witness Blank, when on the stand, 
Was sworn while raising his left hand; 
And so his evidence, no doubt, 
The honored Court will have thrown out. 
And in support of this I read 
From Shyster on the High Court's Need 
Of Being Even More than Loath 
To Tolerate a Lefthand Oathl 



THE DEFENSE OF CY N. IDE 43 

GENERAL OBJECTIONS 

If this were all it were enough 
To set my client free — see Bluff 
On Half a Thousand Reasons Why 
The Law Loves Technicality. 
But, lest your Honor should refuse 
Our claims, my client now renews 
Objection to the Court, its looks, 
Its jurisdiction and its books; 
Objection to the Evidence, 
Indictment — as to form and sense; 
Objections to the desks and chairs, 
The tables and State Counsel's airs — 
In fact, my client now objects 
To everything; and he expects 
To show, by Bluff, by Crook, by Bragg, 
By Shyster, Petti Fogg and Snagg, 
By that great friend of crime, D. Lay, 
By Trick, by Subb Terr Fuge and Stay, 
That he should be set free because 
Of all these loopholes in the laws. 

CONSTITUTIONAL PRIVILEGES 

My client, Cy N. Ide, now please 

The Court, no technicahties 

Would urge, save that they all transgress 

The constitutional — express. 

Implied, declared and specified — 



44 THE DEFENSE OF CY N. IDE 

Prerogatives of Cy N. Ide, 

Who stands here, making naught but one 

Request — that Justice shall be done! 

And we are here, as man to man, 

And mean to do Her if we can! 



EXPRESS RESERVATIONS 

Now, please the Court, we do not waive 

A single right that we can save; 

And we except — some more, some less — 

To jurors, clerks and witnesses. 

And, having made our attitude 

As clear and frank as well we could, 

We come now to the minor phase 

Of testimony in the case. 

INSANITY 

First, wc have shown by proof quite plain 

That Cy N. Ide is hardly sane. 

The eminent Doctor Ale Yay Nisst, 

By reflexing my client's wrist 

And tapping on his frontal bone. 

Finds absence of the Moral Tone. 

And Doctor Ekks Spurt finds one ear 

The thousandth of an inch too near 

The cheek — a symptom, as you see, 

Of irresponsibility. 



THE DEFENSE OF CY N. IDE 45 

So, by our oaths, you should agree 
To Cy N. Ide's insanity, 
And so acquit him of intent 
And free him that he may repent. 

THE ALIBI 

But we have other proofs if this 

Phase of defense may seem amiss: 

My client, Cy N. Ide, proves by 

His witnesses an alibi. 

He was, upon the fatal day 

This deed was done, ten miles away; 

So, if you find him sane, you're bound 

To free him on this other ground, 

As jurors who are sworn to do 

The will of justice, good and true. 

Whichever way you look you will 

Find Cy N. Ide impregnable 

As Truth itself — no crime can lie 

With such a perfect alibi ! 

EVIDENCE OF SELF-DEFENSE 

But, if again you are in doubt 

Of how this crime has come about, 

My client gives sworn evidence 

The deed was done in self-defense. 

The victim of this homicide 

Made fierce attack on Cy N. Ide, 

As he so graphically swore. 

With sword and pistol — aye, and morel 



46 THE DEFENSE OF CY N. IDE 

And, as he shot and stabbed and tried 

To end the life of Cy N. Ide, 

My client, much to his dismay. 

Was forced to shoot or run away; 

And so he shot — the deed was done 

Since he was lame and could not runl 

So it is plain the evidence 

Is ample proof of self-defense. 

And so you must acquit, you see, 

On one ground, two, or even three! 



NO CORPUS DELICTI 

But not alone on this defense — 
This bulwark firm of evidence — 
Do we rely; for we have brought 
The eminent expert, Tellus Watt, 
And he quite sturdily agrees 
The victim died of heart disease, 
In which event the case must fall, 
Since there was no crime done at all. 
The eminent expert, Tellus Watt, 
Says, in the interval 'twixt shot 
And when the bullet struck its mark. 
Excitement quenched the vital spark 
Within the victim's breast; and he 
Died not of crime but naturally. 
So, here again, my client stands 
And asks acquittal at your hands. 



THE DEFENSE OF CY N. IDE 47 

EXCEPTIONS, REQUESTS, MOTIONS, PETITIONS 
AD LIBITUM 

Now, please the Court, we ask the case 

Dismissed — 'tis now the time and place. 

And, failing that, we move the Court 

Instruct the jury to report 

A verdict of not guilty! Should 

The Court not hold our motion good, 

We ask the jury to acquit 

On any ground It may see fit — 

Insanity, If it so please; 

Or alibi or heart disease; 

Or self-defense. If homicide 

Is found we ask it set aside. 

And, failing that, we straightway move 

Another trial, that we may prove 

A new defense — if 'tis denied 

We ask an appeal certified. 

And, failing that, we ask to be 

Petitioners for clemency. 

And, falling that, we ask but leave 

To file petitions for reprieve. 

And failing that — well, Cy N. Ide 

By then will have grown old and diedl 



THE HIGHER EDUCATION 

PROFESSOR NEWTON FLINDERS burned 
his cerebrum to cinders with the oil of mid- 
night study, and was haggard, thin and wan ; 
The degrees that he appended to his name were 

hardly ended when you'd used up all the letters 

and the alphabet was gone. 
His distinctions would bedazzle — he was learned to 

a frazzle, and the learning he possessed was 

more than any man could need. 
He was Concentrated Knowledge — he was Quintes- 
sence of College — he was Saturated Extract of 

the Information Seed; 
He was Wisdom Sublimated, Clarified, Precipitated, 

till a grain of him would leaven near a whole 

community ; 
He was Quadruply Extracted, Boiled, Concentrated, 

Reacted, Double-Tinctured Oil of Midnight — 

there was no such man as he. 
Now Professor Mike McCarty was likewise a 

learned party — but his knowledge was of 

muscles, and he had it and to spare; 
But just as to which professor was the greater or 

the lesser I shall not debate, for truly it is none 

of my affair. 



THE HIGHER EDUCATION 49 

This Professor Mike McCarty ran a School-to- 
Make-You-Hearty, and he advertised exten- 
sively In papers far and near; 

So Professor Newton Flinders, with his cerebrum 
In cinders, sought his brother-educator for the 
summer of one year. 

And celebrities uncounted he discovered who 
amounted to as much in words of matter as he 
did In that of mind. 

For he found Fistic Aggressors who were just as 
much professors In the world that he had come 
to as the one he left behind. 

Professor Pat McGuIre bade him hold his fists up 
higher and then sent a stream of crimson down 
by getting through his guard; 

Professor Dan O'Grady took him out where It was 
shady and then locked a Nelson on him and 
upset him rather hard. 

Professor Mickey Dooley found his pins to be un- 
ruly, so he set him the example of a thousand 
skips of rope. 

Professor Shamus Slattery, the star of some old 
battery, hurled baseballs fiercely at him and 
declared it "Just the dope!" 

Professor Tim McSwatter was his tutor in the water, 
and he left him — wet and gasping — wrecked 
and stranded on the shore; 



so THE HIGHER EDUCATION 

And they slapped him and they rubbed him, and 

they steamed him and they scrubbed him, till 

his brain was quite forgotten, since his muscles 

were so sore. 
Professor Mike McCarty, dean of all this learned 

party, and emeritus professor of the Manly 

Art of Swings, 
Would clinch and uppercut him, would cross-counter 

him and butt him, and teach him how to lead 

and duck, and other brutal things ; 
And when the day was dying they would leave him 

somewhere lying in the grass, where winds 

might blow on him and showers on him fall, 
And when he had partaken weeks of cabbage, beans 

and bacon, he began straightway forgetting that 

he had a mind at all. 

In September or October came a giant man and sober 
to the Flinders chair in college, and his voice 
was fierce and bold; 

He had such a breadth of shoulders as would awe 
student beholders, and his class in mathematics 
was not like the class of old; 

"Uppercut it, Jenks!" he shouted. "Get a Nelson 
lock about it! Duck that swing it's making at 
you — Hit it right between the eyes!" 

"Jones, you're breaking ground — now quit it! Step 
up close and hit it! Hit it! Cross-counter 
now, and lead your left and take it by surprise !" 



THE HIGHER EDUCATION 51 

"Smith, grab that first equation and hang on like all 
creation ! Now lift it by the leg, Old Boy, and 
pin its shoulders down!" 

"O'Malley, stand up closer! Hit that X right in 
the nose, sir; then land on Y with your left 
glove! Now — stranglehold it, Brown!" 

For, signed by Prof. McCarty, of the School-to- 
Make-You-Hearty, he had an ornate diploma, 
framed in some such words as these : 

"Passed by McGuire, McNalley, Dooley, Grady and 
O'Malley — McCarty's Hearty Faculty — with 
honors and degrees !" 



THE STORY OF THE GAME 

AS THE PROFESSOR SAW IT: 

A GENTLEMAN unknown to me, whose look 
was quite severe, 
Stood still and swung a wooden club at the 

advancing sphere; 
Two times he swung, but fruitlessly; the sphere 

would deviate 
Quite sharply in its rapid course from what was 

called the "plate." 
Then mightily again he struck: the sphere rose high 

in air, 
Described a great parabola, but soon descended 

where 
Its fall was interrupted by a gentleman who stands 
Throughout the play with what appears a bag in 

his two hands. 

Then he who struck the sphere ran forth at a right 

furious pace. 
To reach a station on the right that I learned was 

first base; 
But when the swift-descending sphere fell in the 

player's sack 



THE STORY OF THE GAME 53 

He slacked his pace perceptibly and then came 

straightway back. 
A second gentleman advanced and watched the 

hurtling ball 
Pass by four times in front of him, but did not strike 

at all, 
Whereon he ran at lesser speed up to first base — 

I may 
Observe the second player's course seemea much the 

wiser way. 

Next when the sphere came swiftly past, the first- 
base player sped 

Tremendously along the line and slid upon his head 

A full two fathoms' length or more; whereat a 
player there 

Alighted with both feet on him from leaping high 
in air. 

Which served to put the runner "out," as I then 
understood. 

And checked his further onward course — indeed, I 
think it would. 

He then returned whence he set out, but did not 
seem to be 

In such a furious haste as he had been in formerly. 

A third contestant swung his club three times with 
such great force 



54 THE STORY OF THE GAME 

I heard the swish of It in air as it described its course, 

But did not strike the offered sphere. Stung by the 
gibes of men, 

He gave the matter straightway up and would not 
try again. 

But shook his fist at One in Blue, who with each 
effort cried 

Some gibe at him — "Sturr-rike" It was — and waved 
him then aside. 

I had not heard the word "Sturr-rIke," but It ap- 
pears to me 

To be some gibe or taunt and hath a fatal potency. 

AS THE SWEET GIRL SAW IT : 

The nicest man of all of them picked up the dearest 

bat 
And struck the grandest ball with it. Let's see — 

where was I at? 
Oh, yes : he knocked the dearest fly in just the 

sweetest way. 
But the umpire was mad at him and would not let 

him play. 
And then a man not half so nice was called to take 

his place. 
Who never even tried to hit and he got to first base 
Because the umpire was his friend, the horrid, nasty 

cheat. 
While that first nice man sat back there so hurt and 

sad and sweet. 



THE STORY OF THE GAME 55 

And then the second player tried, they said, to steal 

a base — 
I knew he was that kind of man by looking at his 

face — 
But just the bravest man out there jumped on him 

with his heel. 
And sat on him and took away the base he tried 

to steal. 
We girls were just so glad we cheered and waved 

when it was done. 
It served the nasty umpire right for letting such 

men run, 
And making that nice man sit down who really 

knocked the ball. 
And would not steal a base, I know, or anything 

at all. 

So then another man came up, who looked so brave 

and cute. 
And he had yellow stockings on and such a clean 

new suit. 
He tried so hard to knock the ball, but when he 

went to strike 
The horrid pitcher would not throw a single ball 

he liked. 
They only let him have three throws to try and 

hit the ball. 
While that base-stealing man had four and never 

struck at all. 



S6 THE STORY OF THE GAME 

So all we girls got up and left — not one of us would 

stay 
Where all the nice men got put out and only thieves 

can play. 

AS LITTLE JOHNNY SAW IT: 

Casey picked the third one out and soaked it to 

the sky, 
But Bully Jones was there all right, all right, and 

copped the fly; 
Then Billy Grimes let four go past and got himself 

free-tripped, 
And then the lobster tried to steal his second and got 

nipped. 
Say, but that made the home team fans sore back 

there in the stand! 
And then that mutt, Kid Brown, came up, swung at 

three slants and fanned: 
The chuckle-headed bunch ! No wonder all the fans 

get sore 
To see 'em go out, one, two, three, and not a chance 

to score. 

AS THE BASEBALL REPORTER SAW IT: 

Casey aviated — died; 
Grimesey waited — four went wide; 
Coacher beckoned — Grimesey ran; 
Pinched at second — foolish man ! 
Brownie bififed — three teasing ones; 
Third man whiffed — no hits, no runs ! 



GENIUS A LA MODE 

THE DIVA 

MY voice Is clear as water, but it isn't quite 
as free — 
The best seats in the house are ten, the 

cheapest ones are three; 
I also sing for phonographs that all the world may 

hear; 
And in a quite brief season I make half a million 

clear; 
I do not know but they may sell my pictures in the 

aisles; 
For just ten little thousand I pose pictures for the 

styles ; 
And every time I turn about or speak or trill, you see, 
My manager takes care that there are scads in it for 

me: 

Poor Beethoven and Liszt — 

What chances they both missed 

By having no good manager with money-grabbing 

fist; 
And Schubert was so slow, 
Box-office-ly, you know; 
He needed Business Genius, with this cry: "We want 

the dough!" 



58 GENIUS A LA MODE 

THE STAR 

I act because I love my Art — and you may have a 

peek; 

Two dollars is my cheapest seat — I'm billed for 
every week 

Through all the coming season; and my contract, I 
may say, 

Calls for five thousand dollars every blessed Satur- 
day. 

I also turn my little trick with moving-picture men— 

For every quarter taken in, my royalty is ten; 

And when I'm at my summer home at Bay Ridge or 
Sand Hook, 

You may walk by and see me at just fifty cents a look : 

Whichever way I turn 

There's money I may earn; 

My royalties are vast and I have funds and then 

to burn. 
Euripides was slow 
And Sophocles, you know! 
They never heard that sweet refrain: "We're out 

to get the dough!" 

THE AUTHOR 

I write because I love the world — I want to help the 

race; 
My books are net one-fifty and you'll find them every 

place; 



GENIUS A LA MODE 59 

I've sold in hundred thousands — so you'll very 

plainly see 
How many people I have helped — how many have 

helped me. 
They've dramatized my latest book; and though it 

may be trash, 
What matters it to me so long as it brings in the 

cash; 
For just two dollars you may hear me read — my 

voice is grand. 
For fifty cents additional you stay and grasp my 

hand : 



Oh, Milton, just to think 
You wasted precious ink 
That I could turn to money in a way to make you 

blink! 
And poor Boccaccio, 
Your methods were so slow — 
What worlds you might have conquered if you'd 

gone out for the dough ! 



THE TWIRLER 

In summertime you see me as I mow the batsmen 

down; 
In winter I'm in vaudeville — you'll find me right in 

town; 



6o GENIUS A LA MODE 

My picture's sold with chewing gum, and chewing 
day and night 

Brings me a handsome income, for my face is copy- 
right ; 

They biograph my pitching arm, and every time I 
fling 

I'm right at the cash register, so I may hear it ring; 

I love the great and glorious game — I would shake 
hands with you. 

But handshakes have been valued up to fifty cents 
for two! 

Oh, Spartacus of old, 

What ducats might have rolled 

And jingled in your coffers if one home run you had 

poled! 
With sense enough to know 
That fame's a fleeting show; 
And while it lasts the thing to do is go and get the 

dough ! ^ 

ENSEMBLE 

Our laurels we have won — we're Artists every one; 
And if you don't believe it look in Bradstreet or 

in Dun. 
We'd love to greet you — true ! We'd like to smile 

at you ; 
But we're patented and copyright — indeed, it 

wouldn't do! 



GENIUS A LA MODE 6i 

We've fought our way uphill — we're headlined on 

the bill, 
And we are here to thrill you at, say, fifty cents 

a thrill. 
The genius that may glow in us is yours, you know. 
We love our Art, indeed we do; but O, We Love 

You, Dough! 



THE REGENERATION 

ON the first of January he resolved he would 
be very kind and good thenceforth to Mary, 
who for years had been his wife; 
He would not be soft or sappy, but as a good hearted 
chap, he would do more to make her happy and 
to bless their married life; 
He had always loved her greatly but had shown it 
too sedately, and he had been thinking lately 
of the many little ways 
In which he might show affection, and while he 
would pass inspection, yet he knew that some 
correction would entitle him to praise. 

So at breakfast time he told her that as it was grow- 
ing colder (and they both were getting older 
and susceptible to cold) 

She must go to Hyde and Water for some furs of 
mink or otter, for 'twas years since he had 
bought her any furs and hers were old; 

He would like to get her sable and next year he 
might be able; he remarked upon the table and 
the excellence of fare; 

Said the biscuit was delicious and the bacon so nutri- 
tious. "Who is there," he said, "to wish us 
more of gladness than we share?" 



THE REGENERATION 63 

She was breathless and she wondered if somehow 
he had not blundered. Could it be some strain 
had sundered him from reason? When he left 

She sat down quite faint and worried, for he had 
not, breathless, hurried through his breakfast 
and then scurried for his car. Was he bereft 

Of his senses? She was getting very nervous from 
her fretting and her thoughts were all for letting 
Doctor Pilsenpouder know. 

For perhaps he needed dosing; scientific diagnosing, 
or a rest from tasks engrossing — she would tell 
the doctor so. 

Then, while worries thickly clustered, rang the tele- 
phone and flustered as she was someway she 
mustered up the courage to reply; 

And her husband's voice so cheery said: "I've sent 
some flowers. Dearie, for the day is rather 
dreary" — and she heard him say good-bye. 

Which confirmed her first suspicion of his sorrowful 
condition and she went about her mission of 
housekeeping much in fear 

Of his growing aberration and her mental perturba- 
tion was beyond all calculation and her fancy- 
ings were drear. 

when at dinner time, precisely, on the hour he came 
and nicely groomed and kissed her oncely, 
twicely, she compelled herself to smile; 



64 THE REGENERATION 

And he kept up such a chatter as he carved things on 
the platter she was sure what was the matter, 
and she watched him all the while ; 

But she was alarmed, fear smitten and her cheek in 
terror bitten when he told her he had written 
to her mother to prepare 

To come visiting with Mary ere the end of January, 
and that he'd be more than very glad to have 
her visit there. 

Then he saw her cheek grow paler and he wondered 

what could ail her, for her color seemed to fail 

her and her growing fear was such 
That he rushed across and got her smelling salts and 

gave her water — for the roses and the otter and 

this last were quite too much; 
And hysterically crying she but wrung her hands and 

lying on the couch kept sighing, sighing — for 

she saw the crucial change. 
And she cried out with decision: "John, you must 

see a physician — you are in a bad condition — 

for your actions are so strange !" 



THE SONG OF THE DINNER BELL 

AS long as they fry spring chicken, 
r\ As long as young squabs are born, 

As long as my pulses quicken 
At platters of fresh green corn. 
Sing me no mournful numbers, 

Chant me no solemn song, 
As long as we've sliced cucumbers 
I guess I can get along. 

As long as we've baked potatoes 

That fluff out like flakes of snow, 
As long as we've sliced tomatoes. 

As long as young turkeys grow, 
Bring me no pale and pallid 

Refrain from a funeral song, 
As long as we've sweetbread salad 

I guess I can get along. 

Bid not mine eyes be moist or 

Red from expected woes; 
As long as they leave an oyster. 

As long as a lobster grows. 
How can the times be tearful, 

How can the world be sad. 
How ran we not be cheerful 

As long as they plank roe-shad? 



66 THE SONG OF THE DINNER BELL 

As long as the tall, hot biscuit 

Is dripping with honey sweet, 
You may hate the world — I'll risk it 

As long as we've things to eat. 
No praises that I might utter, 

No splendors my fancy spreads, 
Compare with the yellow butter 

Spread thick on fresh home-made bread. 

What is the sense of spoiling 

Life, with its bill-of-f are ? 
As long as we've mushrooms broiling 

Where is the room for care? 
Why should our troubles fret us, 

Why should our hopes e'er fade, 
As long as we've crisp head-lettuce, 

With mayonnaise overlaid? 

Peace to thy sighing, brother. 

See that thy tears are dried. 
Get thee a steak, and smother 

It with some onions, fried. 
Turkey with oyster dressing. 

Beef with its gravy brown. 
Life? It is one grand blessing — 

Dinner is served — sit down! 



I 



DREAMS 

F the iceman should come to me some day, 

While weighing out a piece at my back door, 
And, dropping it upon the porch, would say: 
"It was so cold last year and year before. 

The crop is long and we have cut the price" — 
If he should just say that and lay the ice 
On my back steps and then drive on — but 

hush ! 
Such dreams as this are only silly gush. 

Or if the butcher, wrapping up my steak. 

Should say: "You know, the corn crop was so vast, 
And feed so cheap, we're able now to make 
A slight reduction in the price at last" — 
I say, if he should tell me that and take 
Two cents a pound from last week's price of 

steak, 
I wonder if the shock — but pshaw! why spare 
The time to build such castles in the air? 

Or if the baker, doling out my bread, 
Should put a penny back into my hand. 

And say: "The world will be more cheaply fed. 
Since there is a large wheat crop in the land" — 



68 DREAMS 

I say, if he should voluntarily 

Return a single penny unto me, 

I wonder if I'd be — but. Heart, be stilll 

There is no possibility he will! 

Or if my tailor, deftly sizing me 

For a new suit, should say: "You know that sheep 
Are multiplying fast and wool will be 
In cloth upon the market very cheap" — 
I say, if he should just say that and take 
Five dollars from the price — well, then, I'd 

wake 
Right up and rub my sleepy eyes and laugh, 
To think of tailors giving me such chaff. 

I know that these are merely dreams — that ice 
And meat and bread are going up — that crop 
Or weather^will do naught but raise the price, 
There is no likelihood of any drop. 
But my employer tells me he will give 
Me higher wage — it costs so much to live — 
So now I do not need to skimp and scratch — 
My pipe is out! Has any one a match? 



THE TOWN OF IMPOSSIBLEVILLE 

I LIVE in the town of Impossibleville — a village 
eccentric and nice, 
Where no matter how hot is the Midsummer 
day the iceman leaves plenty of ice. 
The dairyman never once waters the milk, but leaves 

yellow cream in his wake, 
The baker gives always a full loaf of bread and the 

butcher serves porterhouse steak. 
The coal man gives two thousand pounds for a ton, 

nor weighs up the man with his load, 
There isn't a lawyer, a judge or a court and the old, 

Golden Rule is the Code. 
It lies in the valley 'twixt Honesty Flats and the top 

of Millennium Hill, 
And is peopled by poets and dreamers and such — is 
the town of Impossibleville. 

'Tis a wonderful place is Impossibleville, where 

there's never a scramble for pelf. 
And the rights of man's neighbors are valued as high 

as the rights that he claims for himself. 
No hand-organ man on the street ever grinds out his 

ancient, soul-harrowing tunes. 
Nor the man who must board haunted three times a 

day with small dishes of watery prunes. 



70 THE TOWN OF IMPOSSIBLEVILLE 

There's only one church In Impossibleville, and that's 

about all that it needs, 
Nor do people lose sight of the kernel of good in the 

chaff of their musty old creeds. 
It's just over there where the Golden Rule Heights 

overlook the green vale of Goodwill 
And it's peopled with folks it might please you to 

meet is the town of Impossibleville. 

The sewing society there never meets unless there is 

something to sew, 
Good deeds are the coin of the realm and no man 

but may settle in Millionaire's Row. 
The cider's all made from the ripest of fruit and 

open at bottom or top. 
The barrel of apples looks equally good for there's 

only one salable crop. 
No matter what happens the cook never quits, nor 

ever was known one to scold, 
The weather is perfect the whole livelong year, nor 

ever too hot nor too cold. 
It's right over there 'twixt the town of Don't Fret 

and the top of Millennium Hill 
And is peopled with poets and dreamers and such — 

is the town of Impossibleville. 

If you'd reach the cool shades of Impossibleville, 
you must start on your journey in Youth, 

Turn aside from the main-traveled road and set foot 
on the little used pathway of Truth, 



THE TOWN OF IMPOSSIBLEVILLE 71 

Press on past the town of Fair Play and Don't Fret 

till you climb up the Golden Rule Heights, 
And then you may look down the vale of Good Cheer 

and see all of these wonderful sights. 
But many have set out with hope and light hearts 

determined to reach this fair spot 
Who someway have strayed from the little-used path 

and are lost In the wastes of Dry Rot. 
But it's right over there 'twixt the town of Fair Play 

and the top of Millennium Hill, 
And it's peopled with poets and dreamers and such — 

is the town of Impossibleville. 



THE WOES OF THE CONSUMER 

I'M only a consumer and it really doesn't matter 
How they crowd me in the street cars till I 
couldn't well be flatter. 
I'm only a consumer and the strikers may go striking 
For it's mine to end my living if it isn't to my liking. 
I am only a consumer and I have no special mission 
Except to pay the damages. Mine is a queer 

position: 
The Fates unite to squeeze me till I couldn't well 

be flatter, 
But I'm only a consumer, so It really doesn't matter. 

The baker tilts the price of bread upon the vaguest 
rumor 

Of damage to the wheat crop, but I'm only a con- 
sumer 

So it really doesn't matter, for there's no law that 
compels me 

To pay the added charges on the loaf of bread he 
sells me. 

The ice man leaves a smaller piece when days are 
growing hotter 

But I'm only a consumer and I do not need iced 
water. 




fotui (\jSalc«U ddiMuu* 



THE WOES OF THE CONSUMER 75 

My business is to draw the checks and keep in a 
good humor 

And it really doesn't matter, for I'm only a con- 
sumer ! 



The milkman waters milk for me; there's garlic in 
my butter 

But I'm only a consumer, so it does no good to 
mutter. 

I know that coal is going up and beef is getting 
higher 

But I'm only a consumer and I have no need of fire. 

And beefsteak is a luxury that wealth alone is need- 
ing, 

I'm only a consumer and I have no need of feeding. 

My business is to pay the bills and keep in a good 
humor 

For I have no other mission, since I'm only a con- 
sumer. 

The grocer sells me addled eggs ; the tailor sells me 

shoddy 
But I'm only a consumer and I am not anybody. 
The cobbler pegs me paper soles; the dairyman short 

weights me, 
I'm only a consumer and most everybody hates me. 
There's turnip in my pumpkin pie and ashes in my 

pepper, 



^(> THE WOES OF THE CONSUMER 

The world's my lazaretto and I'm nothing but a 

leper, 
So lay me in my lonely grave and tread the turf 

down flatter, 
I'm only a consumer and it really doesn't matter. 



THE EASIEST WAY 

IF you, the Grocer, readjust your scales 
To give full sixteen ounces to the pound; 
And you, the Lawyer, scorn the fairy tales 
You tell to win the case you know unsound; 
If you, the Doctor, frown on quackeries 

And strive your best to practice as you frown — 
Then we shall need few far-sought remedies 
To better the conditions here in town. 

If you, the Statesman, quit your noisy rant 

And be one-half the man you claim to be ; 
If you, the Preacher, cast away this cant 

And empty creed, and heed Christ's "Follow mel" 
If you, the Loafer, will go back to work 

And be a bee and not a useless drone; 
And you, the Laborer, will strive, not shirk — 

I think we'll solve our troubles all alone. 

If you, the Orator, will give us deeds 
To thicken up the gruel of your speech; 

And you, the Gardener, will pull the weeds 

And cleanse your field so far as you can reach; 



78 THE EASIEST WAY 

If you, the Milkman, give us honest milk 
And leave the added water in the well; 

And you, the Agitator, and your ilk. 

Will toil, not talk — we'll have few woes to tell. 

If you, the Voter, will be just as clean 

As you think every Government should be; 
And you, the Officeholder, make the scene 

Of your activities a joy to see; 
If you, the Citizen, by every act 

Will prove your loyalty to civic good — 
Our ills will be in dreams much more than fact, 

And Country will be nearly what it should. 

If you, the Man, will strive to reach the plane 

You claim you want the Nation rested on; 
And you, the Dreamer, wake up now and gain 

A place in the procession ere it's gone; 
If you — just you, remember — cast the beam 

From out your eye — I pledge it, signed and sealed, 
This life of ours will be one blessed dream. 

And all the ills we suffer will be healed ! 



THE REAL ISSUE 

THERE are two issues, after all, 
Above the ones that speech may call 
Or wisdom utter. 
Two issues that with me and you 
Are most important — and the two 
Are bread and butter. 

Let patriotic banners wave, 
Let economic speakers rave; 

'Tis not potential 
That Art proclaim or Music sing, 
The Loaf is, after all, the thing 

That's most essential. 

Truth seeks some broader meeting place 
For breed or clan or tribe or race. 

For saint and sinner; 
But after all the noise and fuss 
The issue paramount with us 

Is — What for dinner? 

New theories we may evolve. 
Old governments we may dissolve, 
New flags float o'er us, 



8o THE REAL ISSUE 

And Truth may search and Wisdom think, 
Still these two planks of meat and drink 
Are yet before us. 

So let contention hotly wage 
And let the wars of logic rage 

In discourse fretted; 
When all the clamor is complete 
The issue still is what to eat — 

And how to get it I 



TRIFLES 

HE took a little flyer, 
That was all; 
He thought he knew the wire 
Had the call. 
He took a little flyer 
And he went up high and higher, 
Now his fat is in the fire, 
That is all. 

He played a little poker. 

That was all; 
When his wife complained he'd joke her- 

Stakes were small. 
He played a little poker 
At a purely social smoker. 
And he died dead-broke or broke-er, 

That is all. 

He used to play the horses. 

That was all; 
Had tips from all the courses 

For a haul. 
He used to play the horses 
Till he used up his resources, 
Now he knows just what remorse is. 

That is all. 



82 TRIFLES 

He was just a rare good fellow, 

That was all; 
Without a streak of yellow 

Great or small. 
He was just a rare good fellow 
And his moods were often mellow. 
What! Another shortage? Hello! 

That is alh 

He only meant to borrow, 

That is all; 
To put it back to-morrow, 

Sum was small. 
He only meant to borrow, 
But he found out to his sorrow 
That it never comes to-morrow, 

That is all. 




fpA<* IVol<u?iTarffecu* 



THE OLD SUBSCRIBER 

I'VE put up and subscribed till I'm fagged, 
All the way from ten dollars to cents; 
I've been "touched," I've been "worked," 
I've been "tagged," 
And the pressure on me is immense. 
I've been ticketed, socialed, pink-tea-d, 

For heathen and less favored folk, 
And my purse has been open to Need 
Till now it is I who am broke. 

I have built orphan homes and town halls, 

"Put up," "come across" and "made good." 
I've helped repair Jericho's walls 

As far as my little mite would. 
"Patronized" local talent in art, 

Been "in" on subscriptions galore. 
Because I've had never the heart 

To show any one to the door. 

I have bought Christmas cards for Chinese, 
And subscribed for new pews in the church; 

I have helped out the far-off Burmese, 
I couldn't leave them in the lurch. 



86 THE OLD SUBSCRIBER 

I have reared drinking fountains that ought 
To make the horse rise and cry blessed; 

There isn't a corner or spot 

They haven't put me to the test. 

I'm the one and original soul 

Who said: "Put my name down for five." 
I'm the real summum bonum — the goal 

Of every cash-seeker alive; 
Just look like Hard Luck on the shoals 

And rattle a paper at me — 
I'm the Past Grand High Priest of Good Souls, 

The real "Old Subscriber"— E. Z. 



THE WEEK IN SCHOOL 

MONDAY'S Adenoidal Day- 
Bring bandages and salve, 
For Doctor Jones will cut away 
The adenoids you have. 
No doubt you will be overjoyed 

When Doctor Jones is through, 
To know no fretful adenoid 
Again will trouble you. 

Tuesday will be Tonsil Day — 

Of that please make a note, 
For Doctor Brown will cut away 

The tonsils from each throat. 
Bring cotton, lint and vaseline. 

This class meets sharp at ten, 
And tonsils will be snipped off clean, 

Nor trouble you again, 

Wednesday is Appendix Day 

For Classes A and B, 
When Doctor Smith will cut away 

This superfluity. 
Please don't forget the day, as said. 

The classes meet at ten, 
Bring needles and a spool of thread 

To sew you up again. 



88 THE WEEK IN SCHOOL 

Thursday's Antitoxin Day, 

So kindly be prepared; 
Bring gauze and antiseptic spray, 

All right arms will be bared. 
Or left arms if you so elect, 

Be punctual, pray do, 
For Doctor Puncture will inject 

The serum sharp at two. 

Friday's Vaccination Day 

For fall and winter terms; 
Those who have fresh scars will stay 

For antityphoid germs; 
Half a billion's the amount. 

Classes meet at four. 
Doctor Green will make the count. 

Doctor Gray will pour. 

Saturday's Reaction Day — 

Thermometers at three; 
Bring stethoscopes — and Doctor Gray 

Will make blood-counts, to see 
How science triumphs o'er disease, 

How antitoxins rule. 
Now mark the weekly program, please, 

And don't be late for school. 



MODERN MATHEMATICS 

IF a buzz machine that's red or blue 
Costs a couple of thousand cash, 
And It costs a hundred dollars, too, 
When a big tire goes to smash, 
If a young man sits in the driver's seat 

While the engines wheeze and throb, 
How soon will he' get to Easy Street 
On a hundred dollar job? 

If white chips are one V a stack 

And the hour is half past two, 
If the boys have turned the clock hands back 

And the limit is one Blue, 
If the midnight oil holds out to burn 

Till the chips in the rack are low. 
Who'll be the Boss of the Big Concern 

In a couple of years or so? 

If lobsters broiled are two for five 

And bubbles are five a quart. 
And it's twelve o'clock when the guests arrive 

For a couple of hours of sport, 



90 MODERN MATHEMATICS 

If the host gets twenty-five a week, 

When he leads in the merry sport, 
Whom will the bank directors seek 

When the cash in the till is short? 

If a tip on the race is good as gold, 

And Mr, Younghub knows 
He can pick off a couple of hundred cold 

To buy those new Fall clothes, 
If he stakes his pay check for a guess 

On the horse that will draw it down, 
Who will wear the last year's dress 

In place of a brand new gown? 

If cash comes in at five a day 

While ten goes out again, 
If the lights are bright on the Great White Way 

And we just wake up at ten 
Or eleven o'clock P. M. and lead 

The boys in the merry dance, 
What kind of new laws do we need 

To give young men a chance? 



HIC JACET BONES 

TOBACCO that won't bite ; 
Non-bilious beer; 
A high-ball served just right; 

A boutonniere; 
A night off now and then 

With cards, live coals, 
Somebody's cozy den, 

And some good souls ; 
A club or two — the Lambs 

Or Wolves or Cubs 
Or Crabs or Clams, 

Just so they're clubs; 
Clothes half-way neat; 

Clean linen and a bath; 
A flier in the Street 

And — aftermath. 
SomelOU's; 

First nights at plays ; 
Some dreams; some blues; 

Some very rainy days; 
Some fleshly ills; 

Some wonderings of God; 



92 HIC JACET BONES 

Some chills; some pills; 

Six feet of sod. 
Some graven stones 

To weight him down : 
Hie Jacet Bones, 

Man About Town. 



A REALLY PRETTY GIRL 

I HAVE traveled alien countries (through the 
medium of books), 
I have seen (in photogravures) Italy's sun- 
burnished skies; 
I've had (stereoptic) visions of cliff-bounded moun- 
tain brooks, 
And the camera has brought me where Killarney's 
splendor lies. 
In the biograph exhibits I have trodden courts of 
kings, 
To the end of earth (in lectures) I have let my 
senses whirl. 
And it all one sage conclusion to my comprehension 
brings : 
There is nothing half as splendid as a really pretty 
girl: 

I have seen (in scenic albums) all the gardens of 

the East, 
I have been (in dreams fantastic) where the 

tropic breezes blow, 
I have watched (in moving pictures) where Niagara 

like yeast 



94 A REALLY PRETTY GIRL 

Frothed above its splendid chasm and upon the 
rocks below. 
By the banks of the Euphrates (done on canvas) I 
have strolled, 
In the valley of Yosemite seen scenic glories whirl 
In kaleidoscopic splendor, but when all the tale is 
told. 
There is nothing half as splendid as a really pretty 
girl. 

When Nature did the firmament and splashed the 
sombre skies 
With the splendor of the dawning, when she set 
the moon and stars 
As jewels in the crown of Night and with her gor- 
geous dyes 
Made glorious the garden where the nodding 
flowers are. 
She had in mind a vision far beyond the dreams of 
kings, 
A tingling inspiration that set every sense a-whirl, 
So after she had practiced on these quite imperfect 
things 
She set to work and fashioned us a really pretty 
girl. 



JUST HOW IT WAS 

""V TOW, just let me see: 

I ^ Seems to me that 'twas she 
Objected to something 
That he did. Or he 
Objected to her having 
Someone to tea. 
No! Now isn't that queer? 
I know I did hear 
Just the way that it was, 
But it's left me, I fear. 

"No! It comes to me now: 
It seems this was the how 
Of it: Something he did 
That she wouldn't allow. 
Or was it her old folks 
That started the row? 
No ! Now that isn't right, 
I know that's not quite 
The way that Miss Gadaround 
Told me last night. 

"Ah! Now I recall 
The gossip and all : 
It seems that one night 



96 JUST HOW IT WAS 

When he went there to call— 
'Twas last Spring, I think, 
Or was it this Fall? 
Oh, well, anyway 
What I started to say 
Was that — she — well, 
My memory's awful to-day! 

"Now, how did she tell 
Me that? Well, well! Well! Well! I 
You know she got her story 
Right straight from Nell, 
But I can't quite recall now 
Just what she did tell 
Me last night. Anyway, 
Whichever it may 
Be, the wedding is off. 
As I started to say!" 



VANITY 

AT five a maiden's wants are few: 
A set of blocks, a doll or two, 
A little place inside to play 
If it should come a rainy day; 
A pair of shoes, a pinafore — 
I really think of nothing more. 

Nor wants she overmuch at ten — 
A birthday party now and then, 
A bit of ribbon for her hair, 
A little better dress to wear, 
Perhaps a pony cart to drive — 
A bit more than she did at five. 

A modest increase at fifteen — 
A party dress, in red or green, 
A room alone that she may fix 
With bric-a-brac and candlesticks, 
A parasol, a fan — and, oh! 
I quite forgot to add — a beau. 

At twenty she is quite above 

All childish wants — she asks but love. 

And dreams of Princes, tall and fair. 



loo VANITY 

Who come a-wooing and who dare 
All dangers, and she keeps apart 
For him the castle of her heart. 

At twenty-five her fancy goes 
To bonnets, frills, and furbelows, 
A country place, a house in town, 
A better rig than Mrs. Brown 
Or Black or Jones, and just a wee 
Small figure in Society. 

At thirty — well, a little tea 
For the distinguished Mrs. B., 
Who writes — a Prince to entertain, 
A long-haired Lion to make vain 
With silly tricks, a horse show box 
And just a little plunge in stocks. 

At thirty-five and forty — well 
There isn't much that's new to tell : 
A little bigger country place, 
A real good lotion for her face. 
And some reduction made in those 
One can afford to say she knows. 

At fifty — does her fancy end? 
She wants — ah, yes, she wants a friend 
To prove her years were not in vain. 
She wants those dreams of youth again. 
When Princes-errant, tall and fair. 
Lived, loved, and came a-wooing there. 



VANITY loi 

At seventy she wants to know 
Why Vanity and hollow show 
Tempt Wisdom from its lofty seat. 
She wants but ease for gouty feet, 
And peace to wonder what must be 
The last leaf's musings on the tree. 



THE LOVABLE LASS OF THE GROUCHY 

OLD MAN 

A GROUCHY and crotchety, fussy old man, 
Whose stick on the walk beats a rat-a-tat-tat, 
The cut of his coat on an old-fashioned plan, 
A shiny red nose and a worn beaver hat. 
A blare of defiance, he trumpets his nose, 

He clears his hoarse throat with a he-he-he-hem I 
But the girl on his arm, she's as fair as a rose. 
How grew such a flower on such a gnarled stem ? 

He bushes his eyebrows and scowls upon me, 

His stick with a click beats the walk as we pass. 
His scowl wastes the bloom of a smile that I see 

And freezes it stiff on the lips of the lass. 
He raises his hat with a Chesterfield air, 

The sweep of his arm is chill courtesy's sign. 
But his eyes pass me by with an unseeing stare. 

If blood were for spilling, he'd dabble in mine. 

There's pride in the white crest, uplifted so high, 

Defiant the tilt of the old beaver hat, 
Contempt in the stare of the unknowing eye. 

And the click of his stick with its rat-a-tat-tat. 



THE LOVABLE LASS 103 

He spurns me, he scorns me, he hates me — he knows 
I'm nursing in secret some pilfering plan 

To pluck from its parental arbor the rose 
That rests on the arm of this fussy old man. 

So he passes me by with an unseeing stare. 

His cane beats defiantly rat-a-tat-tat, 
He trumpets his nose with a furious blare. 

There's pride in the tilt of his worn beaver hat. 
Love may laugh at locksmiths, nor hazard a care 

In bridging most gulfs of despair with a span, 
But Love needs more courage than mine has, I swear, 

To laugh at this crotchety, fussy old man. 



A MISTAKEN IMPRESSION 

SHE was kissing a picture — I saw her, I saw her, 
She sat at her desk and the door was flung 
wide! 
She was kissing a picture — Oh, horror ! Oh, horror ! 
Oh, Woman, must faithlessness with thee abide? 

She was kissing a picture, I know it, I know It ! 
The love light upon it glanced bright from her 
eyes! 
Oh, Traitress, I'll face thee! Thou'lt show it! 
Thou'lt show It ! 
Aye, 'front her I will with the deed! Then she 
dies! 

She was kissing a picture ! She hides it 1 She hides It ! 

Down deep in a drawer and she's turning a key. 
Now death and destruction betides it, betides it! 

And woe whom it pictures when he shall face me 1 

She was kissing a picture! She's going! She's going! 

I'll bide till she's gone and I'll steal it away! 
Oh, jealousy's fury that's glowing, that's glowing 

Within me ! Oh, doom that has found me this day I 



A MISTAKEN IMPRESSION 105 

She was kissing a picture! I'll take it, I'll take it 

And flash in her face this damned image she loves ! 

The desk! It is locked! Well, I'll break it, I'll 

break it 

And find me this card that her faithlessness proves ! 

She was kissing a picture ! I've found it, I've found it! 

(Be quiet my heart and be silent this moan!) 
With letters and flowers around it, around it! 

Why! What! ! Well, I'm jiggered! 1 ! The 
picture's my own! 



FROM THE COURT RECORDS 

YOUNG Silas Watkins stole a ham — -a theft 
most reprehensible, 
And then engaged a counselor (which cer- 
tainly was sensible). 
They plunged him in a dungeon deep, a dungeon 

grim and terrorful, 
The while his lawyer went to court upon a mission 

errorful. 
And when he found at once the whole proceeding 

could be "busted," he 
Sued out a habeas corpus and took Silas out of cus- 
tody. 

In court his learned counsel urged with dignified 
suavity 

The dangers of unseemly haste In matters of such 
gravity. 

The prosecution's bitterness he held unjustifiable : 

" 'Tis Justice, with her blinded eyes, before whom 
we are triable!" 

And after hours of argument, with growing heat 
and frictional, 

He took a change of venue on a question jurisdic- 
tional. 



FROM THE COURT RECORDS 107 

Whereat the counsel got a stay of trial for a year or 
two, 

To find a missing witness (who was dead, I have a 
fear or two). 

The years rolled on, they tried him, and unmerci- 
fully depicted him 

The commonest of larcenists ; the jury then convicted 
him. 

"No chance for Silas?" cried his lawyer. "Yes, I 
say, indeed he has!" 

Upon the which he went to court and got a super- 
sedeas. 

"Good cheer!" said he to Silas. "You will soon be 

on your fe«t again," 
While Silas gave a bail bond and was straightway on 

the street again. 
A monstrous abstract then they filed, the lawyer 

made a noise and fuss. 
Until, within a year or two, the court gave them a 

syllabus. 
Which, stripped of all its verbiage and law and 

technicality. 
But reaffirmed the verdict based on Silas' proved 

rascality. 

"Odds blood!" cried Silas' counsel to his client, 

"When I've read you this. 
You'll see the entire finding simply reeks with flaws 

and prejudice. 



io8 FROM THE COURT RECORDS 

To jail shall any citizen for stealing of a hock be 
sent?" 

Straightway the which he went to court and filed 
another document. 

"No sheriff shall arrest him, sir, on any legal sham 
as grim 

As this, and if a sheriff tries, Til certainly man- 
damus him!" 



Again upon the solemn court, with masterful urban- 
ity, 

He urged a close inquiry by an expert on insanity, 

Who felt the bumps on Silas' head, who found pro- 
found rascality. 

Who in a year made his report of "obvious nor- 
mality." 

Long Silas' counsel studied it, by methods not re- 
vealable. 

And finally concluded the decision was appealable. 

Good Silas gave another bond to stay his jail pro- 
cessional; 

Good Silas' counsel labored with an ardor quite pro- 
fessional. 

Until he got an order from the highest court avail- 
able, 

"(That as the statutes read, there was a question if 
'twas jailable,) 



FROM THE COURT RECORDS 109 

The court below should try again, and though they 
might acquit it, or 

Convict it, they must try again" — so stated the re- 
mittitur ! 

The witnesses, those gray old men, recalled the 

ancient history 
Of Silas' crime with halting speech, and deep and 

dark the mystery 
To them of why they were recalled; with quavering 

tones, in truthfulness 
They told again the old, old tale of Silas' erring 

youthfulness. 
The jurors held he could not change his spots, but 

like the leopard he. 
So Silas' counsel straightway held he had been twice 

in jeopardy. 

Alas ! So intricate a case, with all the points in- 

volvable. 
When Death took Silas and to dust found him to be 

resolvable ! 
Took him for reasons, good, perhaps, but which 

were not revealable, 
And Silas' counsel found, alack, the judgment not 

appealable ! 
But back to court he strode when sure that Charon 

o'er had ferried him, 
And cried: "I want a nol. pros, for my client — ^we 

have buried him I" 



THE REGULAR PARTY MAN 

I AM the Llprij;ht Citi/cn — Taxpayer is my name, 
I'm one o( the city's soHd men and I'm every- 
where the same. 
I've built the sewers and paved the streets and paid 

for tlie parks you see, 
And all o( the Contractors, Bosses, Beats and 
Leeches teed on me. 

You see, I'm a Rcoular Party Man — it's bred In my 

llcsh and bone. 
Pve voted for every Republican since the party has 

been known. 
1 always Note my ticket straight, though at times it's 

a bitter pill, 
1 never split it, and 1 may state that 1 hope 1 never 

will. 

Now Smith, next door, is a Democrat, and another 

solid man, 
Who always knows right where he's at and he votes 

by the self-same plan. 
And Smith is an L'pright Citizen, and his name's 

Taxpayer, too, 
And as one of the city's solid men, he's down on 

the drafting Crew, 



THE REGULAR PARTY MAN iii 

And so am I. So we go to the polls, and vote 

straight down the line, 
Two square and quite well-meaning souls, and his 

vote offsets mine. 

Now, I've talked with Smith and he's talked with 

me and we've talked quite plainly, too. 
I've said to him: "Now, Smith, you see, I'm down 

on this grafting crew. 
And our man is the man to win the fight — he's a 

clean and able man," 
And Smith says: "Yes, I guess that's right, but he's 

a Republican, 
And I always vote my ticket straight from A to 

Z — that's how 
I've always done and it's getting late to change my 

methods now. 
Our man isn't quite what he ought to be, I quite 

agree to that, 
But he's the Party Nominee, and you know I'm a 

Democrat, 
So I guess I'll stick to the good, old ship, and vote 

right down the line." 
And Smith makes one cross on his ballot slip — and 

so his vote kills mine. 

Smith talks with me in the self-same way, and he 

says: "This paving job 
Is a downright steal, I'm free to say, and our man's 

pledged to play hob 



112 THE REGULAR PARTY MAN 

With the deal they've made, and we ought to stand 

behind him to a man." 
And I know our man has made a trade — but he's a 

Republican. 
So I say to Smith: "I'd like to vote for your can- 
didate, that's flat. 
But somehow it sticks fast in my throat, for he is 

a Democrat, 
And you know I belong to the G. O. P., the party 

of Lincoln and Blaine, 
And it ought to be good enough for me, so Pll vote 

her straight again." 
And so we go to the polls and vote for the Gods of 

the Faith That Is, 
It's not just good, but what's the odds — and my 

vote just kills his. 

Now, Smith and I, we mean all right, and we want 

things on the square. 
But when there's a Regular Party fight, a man must 

do his share. 
My faith comes down from Fremont's time, and 

his from Jefferson, 
And to cling to the Old Time Faith's sublime, no 

odds how the paving's done. 

Sometimes I think his man's the best, sometimes 

he thinks mine is. 
But I vote straight. North, South, East, West, and 

he votes straight for his. 



THE REGULAR PARTY MAN 113 

We quite agree on little things, like the tax rolls 

and the streets, 
The city schools, police, white-wings and the health 

of milk and meats. 
But when it comes to matters big, like a Regular 

Party plank. 
Why Smith is stubborn as a pig, and Pm somewhat 

of a crank. 

And we'd like to vote alike and then we could down 

the grafting crew. 
But we are both Regular Party men — so what are 

we going to do? 



POOR JIM 

IN a not distant commonwealth, while knocking 
'round for strength and health, 
I boarded with a widow dame (of course I 
can't disclose her name), 
An acid creature, gaunt and grim, who lived alone 

with one son, Jim. 
A freckled, awkward, red-haired chap, not reared 

exactly in the lap 
Of luxury, or taught to know affection's honeyed 

overflow. 
And oft my rose-hued fancy's dreams were rudely 

shattered by the screams 
Wild from the wood-shed forth which came. And 

then my stern, ascetic dame. 
Smoothing the wrinkles from her lap and waving 

high a leathern strap. 
Emerged, and said in accents grim: "Feel better 
now, I've paddled Jim." 

Day in, day out, that same assault, whate'er the 

wrong or whose the fault. 
If any boarder sought by night to liquidate his debt 

in flight. 



POOR JIM 115 

My acid widow from her grief in flogging Jim 

found swift relief. 
Whene'er in anger, 'twas her wont to strap that 

awkward httle runt. 
The beef was tough, the bread was burned — at once 

my lady quickly turned. 
Until she spied the trembling Jim; her claw-like 

fingers gobbled him, 
Swift to the wood-shed bore him out, aloft she 

swung her leathern knout. 
And then emerged, tall, sour, and grim: "Feel 

better now, I've paddled Jim." 

Poor Jim, a child of sores and salve, served as a 

constant safety valve. 
Perhaps my lady angered came from quarrel with 

some neighbor dame, 
Or worsted in some church debate; arose, perchance, 

a little late; 
The butcher's bill was deemed too large; the gro- 
cer's trifling overcharge 
Conspired to rouse my lady's ire; her lips were 

drawn, her eyes flashed fire; 
Straightway the luckless Jim was sought, the strap 

from out the kitchen brought, 
Jim laid across his mother's lap; shrill whistled 

then the leathern strap. 
Until she breathed in accents grim: "Feel better 

now, I've paddled Jim." 



ii6 POOR JIM 

But once my lady's accents shrill were silenced; she 
was stricken ill. 

Her lungs distressed, she strove for breath, and hov- 
ered between life and death. 

The doctors pondered in dismay; they held no hope 
and saw no way 

To save my lady's life. More grim and gaunt she 
grew, and little Jim 

Was called to say his last good-bye. She spied him 
with a brighter eye. 

Swift seized him, drew him 'cross her lap, and called 
the nurse to bring the strap. 

At eve the doctor, calling 'round, miraculous im- 
provement found. 

"I feel," she whispered low to him, "much better 
since I paddled Jim." 



A TOAST TO MERRIMENT 

MAKE merry! Though the day be gray 
Forget the clouds and let's be gay! 
How short the days we linger here: 
A birth, a breath, and then — the bier I 
Make merry, you and I, for when 
We part we may not meet again! 

What tonic is there in a frown? 
You may go up and I go down, 

Or I go up and you— who knows 

The way that either of us goes? 
Make merry! Here's a laugh, for when 
We part we may not meet again. 

Make merry! What of frets and fears? 
There is no happiness in tears. 

You tremble at the cloud and lo ! 

'Tis gone — and so 'tis with our woe, 
Full half of it but fancied ills. 
Make merry! 'Tis the gloom that kills.^ 

Make merry! There is sunshine yet, 

The gloom that promised, let's forget. 
The quip and jest are on the wing. 
Why sorrow when we ought to sing? 

Refill the cup of joy, for then 

We part and may not meet again. 



ii8 A TOAST TO MERRIMENT 

A smile, a jest, a joke — alas! 

We come, we wonder, and we pass. 
The shadows fall; so long we rest 
In graves, where is no quip or jest. 

Good day ! Good cheer ! Good-bye ! For then 

We part and may not meet again ! 



THE SMOTHERED REBELLION 

SOME day I will rise in the might of my wrath 
to throttle and bring to its knees the Spectre 
of Order that crosses my path and won't 
let me do as I please; some day my rebellion at 
Order and Law will burst into furious flame, and 
there will be doings as never you saw before there's 
an end to the game ; some day I will come home and 
some one will say: "Don't leave your gumshoes in 
the hall!" and then I will start my rebellious foray 
and hang all the chairs on the wall; I'll take down 
down the pictures and trample the glass and strew 
it all over the floor, and throw all the bric-a-brac 
out on the grass and nail my silk hat on the door; 
I'll use the hall clock as a wardrobe for clothes, 
and to be fantastic and queer, I'll eat my meals 
hanging head down by my toes from arms of the 
brass chandelier; somebody will tell me I've tracked 
in some mud, time thousand nine hundred and one, 
and I will go mad with my eyes full of blood and 
webs of disorder be spun; I'll light my cigar with 
some priceless old lace and spill all the ashes about; 
I'll scatter burnt matches all over the place and 
jigstep and handspring and shout: "O Fiends of 
Disorder, wherever you stray, bring gumshoes and 



120 THE SMOTHERED REBELLION 

mud to your knees and litter this house up, for this 
is the day that I'm doing just as I please!" 

Some day all the pent-up disorder in me, re- 
strained by sharp warning and word, will burst like 
a storm that sweeps over the sea and all of the 
landscape be blurred with misplaced umbrellas and 
rubbers and canes, with gumshoes and topcoats and 
hats, with out-of-place collars and glass-bottom stains, 
tobacco, pipes, neckties and spats; I'll tie all the 
doilies I find in hard knots, let her reprimand me 
who dares, and use cigarettes to burn unsightly spots 
on bureaus and tables and chairs; I'll rest my 
shod feet on the new davenport and drop my pipe 
coals on the rug, and sit with my heels on the piano- 
forte so cozy and restful and snug; and if any niece, 
sister, aunty or wife presumes to say no it will be 
at imminent peril of limb or of life, for all the mad 
anger in me will boil like a kettle, and I will send 
out for friends to come in and help own the soul- 
swelling freedom of one careless lout, who just 
wants to be let alone; who just wants a rest from 
"Please, John, don't do that!" "Oh, John, don't 
sit there in the breeze!" "Oh, John, you'll catch 
cold if you don't wear your hat!" — and we will 
all do as we please. 

Some day I'll invite in a lot of good souls — we'll 
sit and spin yarns by the score; we'll see blessed 
futures aglow in the coals and smoke till we can't 
see the door; each fellow will throw his hat just 



THE SMOTHERED REBELLION 121 

where he wills and pull up a big chair before the 
grate, and twice blessed the comrade who spills the 
biggest ash-pile on the floor; we'll bid all the Fiends 
of Disorder to come and help us be careless and 
gay; the voice of correction for once shall be dumb 
and there shall be no yea or nay; we'll puff till the 
curtains are yellow and brown; we'll scratch the ma- 
hogany chairs, and great clouds of dust come de- 
lightfully down, but we shall be all unawares; we'll 
try to forget there is neatness on earth, or things 
that are apt to be soiled; the day shall be given quite 
over to mirth, nor ever by warnings be spoiled; 
we'll — Beg pardon, Sweetheart, house-cleaning to- 
day? I guess there's some ash on the floor. I'm 
awfully sorry — I mislaid the tray. I'll try not to 
spill any more. "The curtains need washing?" They 
look clean to me. I can't see they're dusty and 
brown. Well, if they must be I suppose they must 
be. I guess I'll be going downtown! 



LOVE'S COTTAGE THE FIRST 

THERE'S a wonderful cottage just over the 
way, with windows and porches and doors; 
inside there are rooms in imposing array, 
and hallways and closets and floors. The doors are 
on hinges and swing open wide whenever you want 
to go out — and when you are out you may go back 
inside by just simply turning about. The windows 
have glass panes to let in the light, and push up to 
let in the air. Indeed, it is all the most wonderful 
sight I think I have seen anywhere ! The rooms all 
have walls — one, I think, on each side; and ceilings 
above, I declare! Each one has a floor over which 
you may glide just by stepping your foot right down 
there. I wish I were gifted with eloquence rich to 
tell you the sights I was shown — the glass in the 
windows, the rare flowers which upon the wall- 
paper have grown ! The new-married couple that's 
building this place explained all its wonders to me; 
and I never hope in the years of life's race another 
such cottage to see ! 

The more that I saw of this marvelous place — 
the more that I saw and I heard — the more my 
surprise must have shown in my face, the more I 
was startled — my word! There were closets for — 



LOVE'S COTTAGE THE FIRST 123 

can you Imagine? — for clothes ! To be hung upon — 
what think you ? — hooks ! Yes, hooks — to be placed 
there in long even rows. Downstairs there were 
bookshelves for books ! To enter each room was a 
door to walk through, that let you go in and come 
out. You may not believe all I say to be true, but 
you may believe, without doubt. Wherever you 
went you might walk on a floor — a truly remark- 
able fact on which the designers set very much store 
— they dwelt on the floor with much tact! And 
what do you think they discovered for me? A 
kitchen, so I was advised, for cooking things in — 
soup, meat, coffee and tea — a purpose I'd ne'er have 
surmised. And so I went on from surprise to sur- 
prise with this wedded couple, who hurled their 
wonders at me as I drank In with sighs this most 
wonderful house In the world! 

Their floor number two could be reached In a 
trice, as they were delighted to show, by a quite 
breath-stopping, ingenious device — a staircase you 
walked up just so ! They showed me a bathroom 
wherein might retire the world-weary mortal to 
scrub; and there they discovered for me to admire 
— I swear that I saw It — a tub ! Still wonders on 
wonders before me were spread; surprise lent sur- 
prise the more zest. I saw airy chambers each laid 
with a bed — for sleep, so they told me, and rest! 
The basement, they told me, was under the place, 



124 LOVE'S COTTAGE THE FIRST 

and I thought with surprise I should drop when I 
learned that the attic was up a staircase and the 
roof of the house was on top. The porch was out- 
side, as they showed me with glee, and the lawn 
was the place for the grass; and the walk laid in 
front, that they took me to see, was that people 
might pass and repass. And if you desire such a 
cottage as this, that well-known old firm, Groom & 
Bride, who live in the state of Perpetual Bliss, will 
show you both out and inside. They'll show you 
such marvels as never you saw, nor ever you will 
where you roam, until you are speechless with won- 
der and awe in that marvelous place they call Home ! 



A CLOSET FOR CLOTHES 

SOMETIMES when I go to my closet for 
clothes that I hung there one time on a hook, 
I find skirts and dresses in rows upon rows 
in every niche, cranny and nook. I find suits, waists, 
blouses, skirts, shirtwaists and such on every hook, 
nail, knob and shelf, but try as I may I can not get 
in touch with the suit that I hung there myself. I 
fume and I sputter while groping about in the dark 
for that suit that I hung in plain sight before me, 
all neatly pressed out, one day when the season was 
young. Somebody has moved it, that's plain to be 
seen, from where it was then in plain sight, for here's 
a blue drop-skirt or yellow or green on the hook, 
but my suit's taken flight. So I make inquiry- — a 
terrible cry: "Say, where is my light suit, or dress?" 
And from the next chamber my wife makes reply: 
"It's 'way in the corner, I guess. I needed that 
hook for my new velvet sacque and your garments 
were right in the way, so I moved your suit just a 
bit farther back. What's that? I can't hear what 
you say." So then I go hunting 'way back in the 
dark by feeling each clothes-hanger o'er, and after 
an hour of clothes-hunting lark I find my new suit 
on the floor. 



126 A CLOSET FOR CLOTHES 

I thought when I planned it I had hooks enough 
to hang all the clothes I should get, but now there 
are rows of this feminine stuff and I am left out in 
the wet. If I look for something that ought to be 
there I hear in accents of distress : "I moved it 'way 
back in the corner from where it was — it was 
wrinkling my dress." I had fifty hooks — there were 
forty to spare and ten I intended to use — and those 
I reserved as my own special share are hung with 
pink slips and with blues. And I can find wrappers 
and calicoes bright and linens and worsteds and 
crash and limp skirts and starched ones and hued 
waists and white and house gowns and all sorts of 
trash. So when I want something in there that was 
mine and that was hung right near the door, I plunge 
in this thicket and grope down the line and find it 
somewhere on the floor, all wrinkled and crumpled 
and spotted with dirt and then I look up and I see 
some confounded wrapper or cloak or silk skirt that's 
hanging there grinning at me. 

So now I am planning a closet for clothes not 
written about in the books, designed for the hus- 
bands and fathers of those who never can find 
enough hooks. 'Twill be in the attic and up a 
stair which no woman would dare to ascend, and 
there I will moat it all 'round with a ditch and 
mount a spring gun at each end. Til bolt it and 
bar it with burglar-proof locks and every protective 



A CLOSET FOR CLOTHES 127 

device, with burglar alarms and electrical clocks and 
barbed wire wound 'round once or twice. There'll 
be just one key to this closet of mine, that no one 
can borrow or beg, for I'll fasten this key to a chain 
strong and fine and I'll rivet the chain to my leg. 
It may be some trouble but blessed the day that I 
may go soundly to sleep, well knowing that when I 
have hung clothes away I'll not find them six 
fathoms deep in overflowed wardrobes of daughters 
and wives, who find my best clothes near the door 
and move them back, back, until some one contrives 
to hang them at last on the floor. 



IN TOWN AND CAMP 



THE FAMILY REUNION 

MET a planter from Virglnny with a lazy, 
Southern drawl, 
And a lanky mountaineer from Tennessee ; 
Saw a smooth-faced boy from Boston who don't 
use his "r's" at all, 
But he's got four hundred years of pedigree; 
And an out-and-out New Yorker, durn long dis- 
tance from Broadway, 
With a cowboy from Montana, minus cow, 
And I tell you. Uncle Sammy, I was proud of you 
to-day 
When I saw 'em rubbin' elbows, eatin' chow. 

Saw a boy from Californy — Granddad went in 
Forty-nine, 
And a cracker right from Georgia, where they 
grow; 
Met a Norsk from North Dakota, lookin' fit and 
fair and fine. 
And a lumberjack from out in Idaho; 
Saw a Swede from Minnesota and a Wop from 
Illinois, 
And a plowboy from the plains of loway, 
In a great, big, husky family of Yankee Doodle boys, 
All drillin' like the devil every day. 



132 THE FAMILY REUNION 

Saw a bank-clerk from Chicago with a rifle, standin' 
guard, 
And an Arizona rancher choppin' wood, 
With a ranger right from Texas, rough and tough 
and weather-scarred, 
Wrastlin' a Missouri mule to make him good ; 
Big jayhawker out from Kansas 'way out back there 
washin' duds. 
With a puncher from Wyomin' leadin' troop, 
A Bohonk from Wisconsin in the kitchen peelin' 
spuds, 
And a Buckeye from Ohio ladlin' soup. 

Saw a black-haired Filipino learnin' somethin' down 
below, 
And a husky Michigander up on deck; 
A man from Alabama, Florida and Idaho, 

A Harvard man, and Yale, and Boston Tech.; 
A millionaire from Cleveland and a lawyer from 
New York, 
A banker from the old Green Mountain state, 
Eatin' mornin' mush with syrup, sharin' bread and 
beans and pork. 
And learnin' what it means to aviate. 

Saw an Oklahoma Injun loadin' pack-mules up with 
chuck, 

A big Nebraska plowboy waggin' code, 
A chauffeur from Fifth Avenue up on an army truck 

And honkin' like blue-blazes down the road; 



THE FAMILY REUNION 133 

A miner from New Mexico as busy as a bee 
A-diggin' drains and ditches more'n a few, 

And all of 'em are on the job when it sounds reveille, 
And most of 'em in bed about tattoo. 

By Heck, we got some country and some people in 
it, too. 
Who was strangers to each other until now. 
But we're gettin' more acquainted with the Old Red, 
White and Blue 
Since we got to rubbin' elbows, eatin' chow; 
We're livin' all together when we eat and bunk and 
drill. 
We're gettin' so we know the real from sham, 
And what there is for us to do, by jiminy, we WILL ! 
It's a family reunion. Uncle Sam. 



THE SONS OF OLD GLORY 

HE'S the sturdy young son of the Nation; I 
have followed him half through the 
land; 
I have met him at outpost and station, in cactus, 

mesquite and in sand; 
I have seen him in camp, post and picket all through 

the great South and the West; 
'Way out in the desert or thicket I have been in his 

tent as a guest; 
I have seen him at Lewis and Kearney, by Sound 

and by River and Bay; 
I have joined him in chaffing and blarney and helped 

him laugh out his long day; 
I know him and each sky above him from Sound to 

the Gulf, up and down, 
I know him and honor and love him, in blue and 

in white and in brown. 

Where the snowy gray head of Tacoma majestically 

rears, hoar and high; 
O'er the spume and the spray at Point Loma, where 

he spreads his broad wings to the sky; 



THE SONS OF OLD GLORY 135 

In the hill-girt blue bay of Saint Francis, at Goat 

Island and Angel and Mare; 
In the cool, desert starlight that dances and glitters 

like frost in the air; 
From Yuma's parched waste to Grand River, by 

mountain-walled border and on, 
Where pink glow and purple shade quiver above at 

the twilight and dawn, 
Where the smoke of his fag has been lifted to 

mark the long trail's very end. 
And the folds of his flag stirred and drifted, I have 

clasped hands with him as a friend. 

He has passed me my soup in a pitcher — my bread 

and my meat at his chow; 
For the rub of his elbows I'm richer than Croesus 

or Midas right now. 
He has made me a bed in his shanty when bugles 

were blowing tattoo 
And never a boy's blessed Aunty was finer and 

kinder to you 
When you were a boy; and he laid it with blankets 

and blankets on straw, 
And bade me sleep well as he made it, and tucked 

in the edges and saw 
The night wind was shut out : — this brother of yours 

and of mine in his brown. 
And I just sort o' choke up and smother and the 

lump in my throat won't stay down. 



136 THE SONS OF OLD GLORY 

I have seen him In sand that was blowing a very 
Sahara or near, 

I have watched him at dim daylight going the miles 
to his drill with a cheer; 

I have seen him on guard with suns beating a hun- 
dred and twenty degrees, 

He has called me a hale, hearty greeting when wad- 
ing in mud to his knees; 

I have talked with him nights in the stillness beneath 
Arizona's black sky; 

I have stood at his bedside in illness and caught 
the half-smile in his eye 

When he found I knew some one or other that he 
had known sometime, somewhere, 

And I wished I was every last Mother on earth and 
could hug him right there. 

Oh, Sammy, My Uncle — go measure the store of 

your riches again. 
And find that the best of your treasure is here in 

the camps with these men; 
It's here in these hearts that are tender and kindly 

and friendly and true, 
It's here in the humanest splendor of manhood a 

land ever knew; 
It's here In the hand-clasp and greeting that eases 

the long, weary mile, 
It's here in the courage that's meeting life's last, 

grimmest test with a smile; 



THE SONS OF OLD GLORY 137 

It's here, Uncle Sam — don't you hear it and see it 

and know it and feel? 
Then lift up and lift up your spirit, that you may 

be worthy their steel ! 



THE RECRUIT 

DON'T know when I met him the first time, 
I'm sure, 
And he may have been rich, and he might 
have been poor, 
But it doesn't much matter, as you will agree; 
He was holding my hand and was smiling at me 
When first I remember : — I recollect, too. 
My gait was unsteady, uncertain, untrue. 
But he helped me to walk from the door to a chair. 
And never I faltered but he stood right there, 
Did my Dad. 

My mother, I think, introduced him to me 
And presented me also to him, as you see. 
And we grew up together from boyhood— that is. 
We grew from my boyhood together, not his; 
He was older than I was the time we first met, 
And I gained quite a lot, but he kept older yet. 
Though I know I was wiser at fifteen than he. 
At forty, but he never thought less of me, 
Did my Dad. 

He took my advice many times, be it known. 
With a smile and good grace, but he followed his 
own — 



THE RECRUIT 139 

A way that men have and between us we knew 

As much as a man and a boy ought to do; 

He was never displeased that I knew so much more 

At twenty than he and his father before, 

And the hand that was mine from the door to the 

chair 
He kept all the years so I'd know it was there, 
Did my Dad. 

Quite the one finest man in our town you'll agree, 
At least if you don't you won't tell it to me. 
For I'd have to convince you by mild means or 

rough 
That he was and I'm sure that is warning enough. 
He was wise, oh, so wise, and was kind, oh, so kind, 
And while to my faults he may not have been blind, 
He winked just a little perhaps, but you see. 
Just because he was closely related to me, 
Was my Dad. 

Now the hand's gone from mine that he held to me 

there 
When with unsteady footsteps from door to the 

chair 
I made that first journey — that strong hand and 

warm 
That I felt closed on mine in so many a storm 
When the journey was rough and the way seemed 

so long; — 



I40 THE RECRUIT 

The hand's gone from mine, but somehow I grow 

strong 
As though that firm hand were outstretched to me 

still, 
And I want to make good, and I must, and I will 
For my Dad I 



HANDS ACROSS THE SEA 

(As Kipling Might) 

' I Y^ 'S a turtle, 'e's a turtle and 'e's got a turtle 
H shell 

Of a Tank when 'e goes drivin' and the 
bullets give 'Im 'ell, 
But they only dent 'is armor and they never make 

a 'ole, 
In 'is courage — 'e's a turtle but 'e's got a soldier's 

soul; 
'E goes lumberin' and blunderin' and thunderin', 'e 

does, 
And 'e 'its wot 'e goes after and 'e makes 'Is engine 

buzz 
Till you 'ear it 'arf to London, and 'e oozes lead, not 

funk, 
'E's a turtle in 'is shell, Sir, but 'e aint no gassin' 

skunk. 

'E's an eagle, 'e's an eagle and you see 'Im In the 
sky 

With 'is beak toward the Fritzes, and 'e aint afraid 
to die, 

And 'e may go West, 'e knows It, but 'e aint con- 
cerned the least 



142 HANDS ACROSS THE SEA 

If 'e takes some Fritzes with 'im and more often 'e 

goes East. 
'E goes gleamin', 'e goes screamin', 'e goes dreamin' 

on 'is way 
And 'is beak is like a razor when 'e's 'untin' of his 

prey, 
'E's an eagle — 'e fights open and 'e cracks 'em in 

the ribs, 
But 'e aint no rotten buzzard droppin' bombs on 

babies' cribs. 

'E's a swordfish in the water — ^you can see 'is 

foamin' snout 
Any where from 'ere to Blighty and a thousand 

leagues about. 
'E's a swordfish and 'e knows it, but 'e aint no 

sneakin' shark 
Turnin' over on 'is belly so's to stab 'em In the 

dark. 
'E's a bulldog, 'e's a bulldog, and 'e 'olds 'em 'ard 

and fast, 
'E was there at the beginnin' and 'e'll be there at the 

last, 
'E's a bulldog and 'e's grippin' 'em with all the 

teeth 'e's got, 
But 'e aint no damned 'y-ena, no 'y-ena, no 'e's not. 

'E's a mole sometimes, 'e knows it, and 'e 'as to be 
a mole, 



HANDS ACROSS THE SEA 143 

But 'e aint a snake, 'e aint, Sir — 'e 'as got a 'uman 

soul; 
'E is used to 'oles and trenches — 'e 'as learned 'em 

in 'Is day, 
But 'e aint no rat, 'e aint, Sir, packin' stolen things 

away. 
'E is Tommy-Tommy Atkins — and 'e's 'omely or 

'e's not. 
As 'is parents gave 'im features, but 'e's Tommy on 

the spot, 
'E 'as done 'is share of fightin', if 'e aint done all 

'e's planned 
But 'e's done 'is bit, 'e 'as, Sir — and I want to 

shake 'is 'and. 



WHEN HE COMES HOME 

HIS picture's on the table as he looked that 
other day, 
With another one in khaki taken since he 
went away, 
And they look alike as can be, but the picture in 

the brown 
Has a sturdier look and manlier — sort o' firm and 

settled down 
To the business he has gone for; and his mother 

keeps them there 
With a tumbler full of flowers that are freshened 

up with care 
When the parlor's dusted mornings ; and quite every 

little while 
As she dusts she stops before them with the rarest 
kind of smile. 

His clothes are in the closet, brushed with care and 

put away. 
For his mother knows he'll want them when he 

comes back home some day; 
They are looked at every morning for — well, moths 

perhaps — for she 
Is careful of his clothes as many mothers have to be. 



WHEN HE COMES HOME 145 

She airs them and she suns them, for he'll want 

them fresh and clean, 
When he comes back home to wear them; and she 

pauses in between 
The airing and the sunning and the brushing with 

a smile, 
And pats them very lovingly and gently all the 

while. 

His books and things, as always, she has left about 

his room, 
Much the same as when he left them; but the fresh 

and sweet perfume 
Of sweet peas and pinks and roses that she always 

keeps in there 
Takes the place of stale tobacco that was heavy on 

the air. 
And the room's in better order than he used to have 

it kept. 
It is sunned and aired each morning and particu- 
larly swept, 
For when he comes back he'll want It fresh and 

clean, his mother said. 
From the rug inside the threshhold to the white 

sheets on the bed. 

So she dusts his room and airs it and the books 

upon the shelf. 
And the flowers above the picture, she has cut them 

all herself, 



146 WHEN HE COMES HOME 

And has placed them in the tumbler, all the buds 
and stems and stalks 

Of peas and pinks and roses and of nodding holly- 
hocks ; 

And she airs his clothes and pats them in a gentle, 
loving way. 

And she smiles the while she does it, for he'll come 
back home some day 

And he'll want that smile exactly as he sees it now 
somewhere 

In a dream at dusk and twilight that is very, very 
fair. 



THE HOME GUARD 

THE village band of Milledgeville was busted 
purty nigh 
When they drafted for the Army and they 
took 'em low and high; 
And, say! She was some cornet band before we 

went to war, 
But now she aint a marker to the band she was 

before. 
We lost Bud Ames, the leader, who was barberin' 

by trade. 
And Doc Fisher who blowed tuba, and the little 

runt that played 
The bass drum as big as he was, and the alto and 

trombone, 
They left us jlst a snare-drum and a flute and 
saxyphone. 

Did we set back then and worry? No; we didn't, 

you can bet, 
For the Board o' Trade got busy, called a meetin', 

and we met. 
And a lot of good, old fellers — some that hadn't 

played for years 



148 THE HOME GUARD 

Said they'd get back in the harness when they called 

for volunteers. 
There was Emery Botts who used to play the 

cornet in his prime, 
And do fancy triple-tonguein' in most any kind o' 

time, 
And Jed Hicks, he blowed the tuba long before the 

Spanish war. 
And he'd try again, by ginger, till the boys come 

home once more. 

Deacon Hayes, he was a fifer back in Sixty-one and 

Two, 
And he fifed for the Grand Army and he'd see what 

he could do; 
And we got a drummer easy, for our blacksmith. 

Homer Strong, 
Said he guessed he could play bass-drum — he had 

pounded iron so long. 
Ezry Boggs said he'd play cymbals, for he used to 

play guitar 
In the days when he was courtin' an he knowed 

what cymbals are, 
And he knowed the bass and treble, but he was a 

little shy. 
Out o' practice on sight-readin' but was not afeard 

to try. 

So we got 'em all together for a practice and we 
blew 




fOba .WelcoIT QcicuH/3 



THE HOME GUARD 151 

'Bout a hundred Spangled Banners and the Old Red, 

White and Blue, 
And it didn't sound exactly like the band we had 

last Fall, 
But the folks said it was better than not havin' none 

at all. 
And we filled the Fire Department up with fellers 

past their prime. 
For we lost a lot of youngsters, and fires might 

break out any time. 
And Hi Green said he'd pull hose-cart and Tread 

Pew said he was game 
For to couple up the nozzle and to squiic her on 

the flame. 

And a lot of Knights of Pythias and Masons that 

was cold 
On attendin' reg'ler meetin's all come back Into the 

fold. 
And we cleaned our swords up shiny and we brushed 

up our chapeaux. 
And paraded all down Main street and, by jing, we 

made some show. 
'Cuz we'd lost a lot of young ones, and you got to 

have parades. 
And you got to have Grand Marshals and you got 

to have some aides. 
And you got to have some marchers, and if lodges 

don't come through 



152 THE HOME GUARD 

When you hold a celebration, what the deuce you 
doin' to do? 

So, you boys that's in the Army, jist remember we're 

on deck, 
And when you come home we'll meet you with a 

cornet band, by heck; 
For we know the Spangled Banner and the Old 

Red, White and Blue, 
And we'll have the Fire Department out and the 

fire engine, too. 
And the lodges will be marchin' and the schools 

and G. A. R., 
And except for age and music you will find us up 

to par. 
For, by jing, we aint no quitters — never was and 

never will, 
And we'll keep the home fires burnin' all the time 

in Milledgeville. 



THE PHILOSOPHER 

""T don't expect to see much change," said Hiram 
I Green to me. 

"We're quite a set and stubborn lot, we human 

bein's be. 
We get our learnin' mighty slow, and just about 

the time 
A feller knows what's good for him, he's gone 

long past his prime. 
The war'U change a lot of things, but I 'low Tread- 
well Pew 
Will slip a couple bad eggs in, just like he used 

to do, 
As soon as we've licked Germany — I don't know 

as I'd say 
It was a mortal sin, perhaps, but it is Treadwell's 

way 

"I don't expect we'll grow no wings; I don't know 

as I'd care. 
If wings was sellin' cheap for cash to order me a 

pair; 
Joe Blake, the drummer'll come along and stock 

Tread up with stuff 
To last him till the crack of doom, when Tread 

has got enough 



154 THE PHILOSOPHER 

Already for a Marshall Field or Wanamaker 

store, 
But Joe Blake's tongue runs pretty smooth, and 

he'll make Tread buy more, 
And send a nice fat order in — he slips Tread 

goods, you see. 
That Tread don't need, just like Tread slips them 

two bad eggs to me. 

i 
"And mebbe Joe will buy a stack in Emery Botts' 

hotel. 
Some quiet room, perhaps, that night he had them 

goods to sell. 
With Tread and Beggs and mebbe more, and get 

cleaned, pit to dome, 
By just some little winks and nods between the 

boys at home. 
They look durn innocent, perhaps, but foreign 

money — well. 
You know it looks invitin' and it has a tasty smell. 
And when Joe puts his last chip in and goes off 

slow to bed. 
He finds they've slipped him somethin' like he 

slipped them goods to Tread. 

"No, I don't look to see much change, in human 
natur' yet; 
We're goin' to need our umberells, I reckon, when 
it's wet. 




[Otui W&»<^ff*Cid 



THE PHILOSOPHER 157 

We aint bought the last gold brick yet, and when 
you're goin' to buy 

A trottin' horse don't you forget to peel your 
weather eye. 

Just trust in man, for he's all right, and better 
than before, 

But you don't need to take the locks all off the hen- 
house door. 

As far as I'm concerned, by jing, the world looks 
good to me. 

And folks is mighty fine when I just take 'em as 
they be." 



H 



THE PRIVATE 

E's a private and he stands 
With a rifle in his hands 
That he grounds, presents and shoulders 
at the sergeant's gruff commands, 



He was Tom or Bill or Jim, 
Joe or Bob or Jack or Tim, 
But he's Private U. S. Soldier now, with 
sergeants drilling him. 

He Is stout or he Is lean. 

He Is awkward and is green. 

And his age is down from thirty to a 

boyish seventeen; 
Just a Jerry or a Ben 
One among a million men, 
Who gets up to drill and work and eat 

and go to bed again. 

Has no claim to fame perhaps. 
For he wears no shoulder straps, 
And in general appearance like a million 
other chaps. 



THE PRIVATE 159 

But to Someone, far or near 
He's the sum of love and cheer, 
And a good deal more important than 
the braided Brigadier. 

And he may be great or not, 

Worth a little or a lot. 

But he's doing what he can do and he's 

giving all he's got. 
So he's just as big to me. 
Every way that I can see. 
As the badged and ribboned Marshal of a 

whole Empire could be. 

So whenever he goes by 

I salute him with my eye. 

And my heart and soul and wish that I could 

stop him and say why. 
For, be honor great or small, 
When they sound the bugle call 
For the battle, he's the fellow who must 

win it, after all. 



BEYOND THE HORIZON 

1SAYS to Ezry Beggs, I says : 
"Them shotes o' your'n look splendid, Ez. 
I don't know when I see as prime 
Fat shotes as them in quite some time. 
They ought to bring top-notch," says I, 
"In price." And he says to me: "Si, 
My boy jist writ his Ma and me 
He's gained ten pound," says Ez, says he, 
"Sence he enlisted 'long last Fall." 
And never mentioned shotes at all. 

"The corn looks fine," I says, says I. 

"If she don't git too wet or dry 

Or cold or hot, she ought to bring 

Some cash next Fall," I says, "by jing. 

From how she's comin' on, hey Ez?" 

"My boy's a corp'rel now," he says, 

"He'll be First Sergeant mebbe yet, 

I wouldn't wonder, and I bet 

He'll make a good one, sure's you're born," — 

And never seemed to think of corn. 

"Them steers," I says, ''looks purty slick; 
I s'pose you're goin' to fat 'em quick 



BEYOND THE HORIZON i6i 

And turn 'em off fer beef," I says, 
"And beef is beef this year — hey Ez? 
I wish I had a bunch like that, 
I tell you, Ez, where I'd be at: 
On Easy Street," I says, "that's where, 
And them fat steers'd put me there." 
And Ez, he says; "My boy writes me 
He aint been sick a day," says he. 

"Tried that new wheat fer seed?" I says. 
"They says she's yieldin' heavy, Ez. 
I wish I could afford to buy 
'Bout forty bushels now," says I. 
"I'd put her in; — I bet she'd bring 
Some money in this Fall, by jing. 
You goin' to let that East field go 
To Summer fallow?"— "Mebbe so," 
He says: "You know my boy '11 be 
Nineteen to-morrer. Si," says he. 



THE QUIET HOUR 

A SOLDIER of our legions was weeping Over 
There ; 
He had cactus in his eyebrows and sand 
blown all through his hair; 
He had skin like sun-tanned leather and was muscled 

like a deer, 
And he looked half like a panther and half like 

a Texas steer. 
He had speared a dozen Fritzes and had rounded 

up a score 
And was marching slowly Westward driving all his 

Huns before, 
But the grimy tears were flowing from his eyes that 

bitter day 
And a comrade stood beside him just to hear what 
he might say. 

Then the bitter sobs broke from him and his heart 
had such a wrench 

That he grabbed a Hun and tossed him twenty feet 
across a trench, 

Charged a pill-box single handed, wrenched a rapid- 
firing gun 

From the place where it was spitting fire and turned 
it on the Hun. 



THE QUIET HOUR 163 

Then he caged his score of captives and upon the 
churned up sands 

He sat and wept with grimy tears that trickled 
through his hands, 

And he said: "Show me some fighting," as he 
wiped away a tear, 

"For I was trained in Texas, and there is no fight- 
ing here ! 

"Oh, I was trained in Texas, where the sun beats 

down like fire, 
I have charged through thorny cactus, and these 

fences of barbed wire 
Are so soft I scarcely feel them; and this barrage 

fire they fling, 
When you've known a Texas Norther, is a modest 

little thing. 
What are rapid firing rifles and the bullets that they 

spit? 
I have marched in Texas sandstorms and that's 

where you get the grit. 
I came here to do some fighting but these battles 

are so still 
And so mild compared with Texas that Tm losing 

all my skill. 

"I have slept with rattlers crawling up and down 

beside my head, 
I've had adders and tarantulas and centipedes in 

bed; 



i64 THE QUIET HOUR 

What to me are these dull Fritzes and these pop- 
gun cannon rounds? 

I have drilled in Texas lightning where they know 
how thunder sounds. 

And this water in the trenches; I have had much 
more than that 

In a thunderstorm in Texas dripping down from 
off my hat; 

Digging holes in clay for shelter is just simple, 
childish play 

When I've chopped mesquite for firewood half a 
dozen times a day." 

Then he sobbed, a bitter sobbing, as he gave way 
to his grief. 

And the score of Huns he'd taken seemed to give 
him no relief; 

It was all so calm and quiet when the Busy Berthas 
boomed 

That he knew his fighting spirit, bred in Texas, 
would be doomed. 

So he cried out: "Oh, my captain, send me some- 
where far from here 

Where there's such a thing as fighting and a man 
can give a cheer; 

And can wade in for a scrimmage — where the Foe- 
man can get his; 

Or else send me back to Texas where I learned what 
trouble is!" 



PARADISE LOST 

HEAVEN is no place with pearly streets 
Away from the fear of wrath : 
It's a bed somewhere with clean, white sheets 
And near it a warm, tub bath. 

A bed with pillows and pillow slips, 

A rug with colors bright, 
And the touch of a little sister's lips 

When a wee voice says good night. 

A window that looks out from the eaves. 

With dimity curtains hung, 
A blossoming tree that's thick with leaves 

That the wild birds hide among. 

A morning paper with Ink still wet, 

And coffee that's piping hot. 
In a china cup and a table set 

As an army mess is not. 

A place to shave or a pot of cream 

A fire place and a book. 
Tired eyes half shut on a pretty dream, 

A girl and a shady nook. 



i66 PARADISE LOST 

Oh, It's chow and bunk with a half-washed face, 

And up when the bugles blow, 
And Heaven was such a near-by place 

One time, but we didn't know. 



THE FIRST-BORN 

I SPOTTED him, by gracious, in the twinkUn' 
of an eye, 

Out of more'n a thousand soldiers when the 

Big Review went by; 
Out of more durn men and horses and artillery — 

why, say! 
I knowed him in a minute when I heard the first band 

play ! 
They was mighty like, them youngsters, as they all 

swung down the line, 
Lookin' straight ahead and keepin' step and march- 
in' mighty fine. 
But I spotted him the minute he was nigh enough 

to see, 
And a kind of pleasant shiver come and run all 

over me. 

If you'd ast me how I done it I don't know as I 

could say, 
But he looked a little slicker than the rest of them 

some way; 
He was buttoned up some neater and his head was 

purty high, 
Just a little wee bit higher when he went a-marchin' 

by; 



i68 THE FIRST-BORN 

And he stepped a little spryer, so it sort o' seemed 

to me, 
And he never seemed to tire, but went marchin' with 

a free 
And a stiddy, smooth and swingin' stride; they all 

looked mighty fine. 
But you couldn't help but spot him when they all 

come down the line. 

They was just a little difference — not much, I'm 

free to say, 
But they was a little difference — a little in the way 
That he held his head and shoulders, and you migh*: 

not hardly see 
What it was, but I can tell you it was plain as day 

to me. 
He stood just a little straighter than most anybody 

there. 
Sort o' carried himself better and his shoulders was 

more square. 
And I couldn't help but notice how durn trim he 

was and tall. 
And he ketched the tune and step a little better than 

them all. 

You don't have to take my judgment; I might favor 

him, it's true. 
Favor him among them others, as a daddy's apt 

to do, 



THE FIRST-BORN 169 

But his mother, she was with me, and she says to 
me, says she: 

"Jim looks trimmer, straighter, taller than the 
others seem to be, 

And he marches on some spryer and his shoulders 
is more square. 

And his blouse is buttoned slicker than most any- 
body there!" 

Which she seen the same as I did, and was said 
before she heard 

What I thought when I first seen him — and cor- 
roborates my word! 



THE END 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




